EVERYMAN'S    LIBRARY 
EDITED  BY  ERNEST  RHYS 


POETRY    AND 
THE     DRAMA 


THE    GOLDEN    TREASURY 

OF    LONGER     POEMS 

SELECTED    AND    EDITED    BY 

ERNEST  RHYS 


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INTRODUCTION 

THIS  volume  of  longer  poems  is  the  natural  successor  to 
the  two  anthologies  of  songs  and  lyrics  and  the  ballad  book 
in  the  same  library.  It  does  not  apply  too  rigidly  its  measure 
of  length,  being  intended  to  take  up  the  line  of  English 
verse  at  the  point  where  the  others  paused,  to  maintain 
the  record  and  make  it  of  a  piece  with  the  rest.  There  are 
poems  that  are  still  lyrical,  like  Drayton's  "  Agincourt," 
and  others,  like  Chaucer's  "  Knightes  Tale,"  which  show  the 
sustained  narrative  power  of  English  verse.  Again  there 
are  poems,  like  Parnell's  "  Hermit,"  which  knit  up  afresh 
the  old  ballad  tradition  of  "  Chevy  Chase  "  and  "  Clerk 
Saunders."  There  are  noble  elegies.  too;  and  tributes  of 
poet  to  poet — "Adonais"  and  Ben  Jonson's  lines  to  the 
Beloved  Memory  of  Shakespeare,  while  the  English  love  of 
place  and  of  Nature  is  heard  again  and  again  in  its  pages. 
In  all  this  variety,  the  main  purpose  is  to  show  the  great 
succession  of  the  English  poets  who  wrote,  as  Coleridge 
says,  with 

A  light  in  sound,  a  soundlike  power  in  light, 
Rhythm  in  all  thought,  and  joyance  everywhere. 

It  keeps  on  the  whole  close  to  the  recognised  track.  It 
does  not  forget  the  great  prose  writers,  like  Swift  and  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  influenced  verse.  But  chiefly  it  upholds  the 
princely  line,  in  which  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Marvell,  Milton, 
Ben  Jonson,  Crashaw,  Henry  Vaughan,  Pope,  Goldsmith, 
Burns,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley  and  Keats 
are  the  masters  and  the  great  maintainers.  In  the  shadow 
of  their  greater  fame  stand  other  poets  worthy  of  remem- 
brance, on  whom  as  it  were  the  true  tradition  took  hold — 
men  who  were  not  great  poets  but  who  yet  contributed  to 
the  rich  store.  Such  were  Joseph  Warton,  whose  "  Grave 
of  King  Arthur  "  is  rescued  from  comparative  forgetfulness, 
and  Shenstone,  whose  "  Schoolmistress  "  is  the  reminder 
of  an  old  and  pleasant  mode  of  rural  art.  In  other  cases 
there  is  a  question  of  poems  that  influenced  the  world  and 

£72184 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

in  a  sense  became  part  not  only  of  the  dialect  of  their  own 
time,  but  of  the  permanent  language  of  verse;  and  these 
too  have  not  been  forgotten.  In  a  few  instances  items 
have  been  omitted  because  they  are  already  printed  in  the 
poetry-books  of  the  series:  e.g.,  "  Chevy  Chase,"  "  Robin 
Hood/'  and  "  John  Gilpin."  For  space  is  precious  and 
every  poem  has  jealously  to  be  considered,  in  the  claim  of 
the  many  that  must  be  omitted. 

On  the  modern  side,  the  book  stops  short  with  the  close 
of  last  century,  where  the  personal  glamour,  as  we  may  call 
it,  and  the  deceptive  contemporary  estimate,  enters  the 
list.  Who  of  us  can  tell  what  the  lasting  value  is  going  to 
prove  of  some  of  those  younger  poets,  under  whose  spell 
we  may  have  willingly  enough  fallen  ? — in  whose  poetry, 

As  in  a  mansion  like  their  proper  home 

Even  forms  and  substances  are  circumfused  .  .  . 

And  through  the  turnings  intricate  of  verse 

Present  themselves  as  objects  recognised, 

In  flashes,  and  with  glory  not  their  own. 

We  have  only  included  then  from  the  later  pieces  some  of 
those  which  have  already  lasted  a  generation,  and  worn  well, 
and  stood  the  test  of  a  change  of  generations  and  fashions. 

E.  R. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  collections  and  anthologies  that 
are  related  to  the  present  volume: — 

Dodsley,  Collection  of  Poems,  1770;  Chalmers,  English  Poets,  1810; 
Hales,  Longer  English  Poems,  1898;  Ritson,  Metrical  Romances,  1832; 
Southey,  British  Poets;  Ellis,  Early  English  Poets,  1803;  Ellis,  Early 
English  Metrical  Romances,  1805;  Saintsbury,  G.,  Caroline  Poets,  2 
vols.,  1906;  Chambers,  Encyclopedia  of  English  literature,  1844- 
1905;  Ward,  English  Poets,  5  vols.,  Chaucer  to  Rupert  Brooke, 
1880-1918;  Campbell,  British  Poets,  1845;  Scott,  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border;  QuilJer-Couch,  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse,  1900; 
Quiller-Couch,  Oxford  Book  of  Victorian  Verse,  1912 ;  Newbolt's  English 
.Anthology  of  Prose  and  Verse;  Chambers,  English  Pastorals,  1895; 
Manly,  English  Poetry  (1170-1892);  Herford,  Tales  in  Verse,  1896. 

Everyman's  Library  editions  of  Browning  (2  vols.),  Tennyson  (2 
vols.),  Burns,  Keats,  Wordsworth  (2  vols.),  Chaucer,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  (2  vols.),  Longfellow, 
Milton,  Gray,  Goldsmith,  Emerson  and  Byron;  Book  of  British 
Ballads;  Volume  of  Heroic  Verse;  Early  Romances  of  William  Morris. 


CONTENTS 


THE  KNIGHTES  TALE 

LONDON  LICKPENNY  . 

ROBIN  HOOD'S  END    . 

THE  RESTLESS  STATE  OF  A  LOVER 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  THOMAS 

WYATT         . 

OF  THE  COURTIER'S  LIFE    . 
PROTHALAMION 
THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH 
AGINCOURT          .... 
Music's  DUEL    .... 
FORTUNE  AND  VIRTUE 
To  THE  MEMORY  OF  SHAKESPEARE 
ODE  ON  LEAVING  THE  GREAT  TOWN 
THE  NYMPH   ON  THE   DEATH   OF 

HER  FAWN 
ON    THE    MORNING    OF    CHRIST'S 

NATIVITY  %    . 

THE  CHRONICLE 
THE  NEW  YEAR 

THE  WORLD        .... 
HOME         ..... 
THE  HERMIT       .... 
PROTOGENES  AND  APELLES. 
BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON 
ESSAY  ON  MAN  (SECOND  EPISTLE) 
A  NOCTURNAL  REVERIE 
GRONGAR  HILL  .... 
THE  PASSIONS    .... 
LONDON     ..... 
THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 
ELEGY   WRITTEN  IN   A  COUNTRY 

CHURCH-YARD 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KING  ARTHUR     . 
AN      EXCELENTE      BALADE      OF 

CHARITIE      .... 
THE  SHIPWRECK 

*  746  ix 


PAGE 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 

i 

John  Lydgate 

53 

Anon. 

•      57 

Earl  of  Surrey 

61 

Earl  of  Surrey 

62 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 

63 

Edmund  Spenser 

66 

Lord  Vaux 

71 

Michael  Drayton 

72 

Richard  Crashaw 

76 

Thomas  Dekker 

80 

Ben  Jonson 

81 

Thomas  Randolph 

83 

Andrew  Marvell 


John  Milton 

88 

Abraham  Cowley 

95 

Charles  Cotton 

98 

Henry  Vaughan 

99 

Joseph  Beaumont 

101 

Thomas  Parnell 

103 

Matthew  Prior 

109 

Jonathan  Swift 

in 

Alexander  Pope 

116 

Countess  of  Winchilsea 

123 

John  Dyer 

124 

William  Collins 

128 

Samuel  Johnson 

131 

William  Shenstone 

138 

Thomas  Gray 

143 

Thomas  Warton 

148 

Thomas  Chatterton 

153 

William  Falconer 

155 

CONTENTS 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE     . 

A  SONG  TO  DAVID 

TAM  o'  SHANTER 

PHCEBE  DAWSON 

MICHAEL    ..... 

LINES  ON  TINTERN  ABBEY  . 

CHRISTABEL        .... 

GLENFINLAS        .... 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 

ADONAIS    ..... 

THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

THE  LOTOS-EATERS     . 

ABT  VOGLER      .... 

A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT  . 

THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  . 

GOBLIN  MARKET 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

THE  DEATH  OF  CUCHULAIN 

WORDSWORTH'S  GRAVE 

THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN     . 

A  LETTER  FROM  A  GIRL  TO  HER 

OWN  OLD  AGE     . 
ELEGY — THE  SUMMER-HOUSE  ON 

THE  MOUND 


PAGE 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

158 

Christopher  Smart 

170 

Robert  Burns 

iSQ 

George  Crabbe 

195 

W.  Wordsworth 

198 

W.  Wordsworth 

2IO 

S.  T.  Coleridge 

2I4 

Sir  W.  Scott 

232 

Lord  Byron 

241 

P.  B.  Shelley 

270 

P.  B.  Shelley 

287 

John  Keats 

296 

Lord  Tennyson 

306 

Robert  Browning 

311 

Robert  Browning 

315 

Matthew  Arnold 

332 

C.  G.  Rossetti 

338 

D.  G.  Rossetti 

352 

W.  B.  Yeats 

356 

William  Watson 

359 

Francis  Thompson 

365 

Alice  Meynell 


Robert  Bridges 


370 


372 


For  permission  to  use  copyright  verses  acknowledgment  is 
due  and  is  hereby  made:  to  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  and  Mr.  John 
Murray  for  The  Summer-House  on  the  Mound;  to  Mrs.  Meynell 
for  A  Letter  from  a  Girl  to  Her  Own  Old  Age;  to  Mr.  Wilfrid 
Meynell  for  Francis  Thompson's  The  Hound  of  Heaven ;  to  Mr. 
William  Watson  for  Wordsworth's  Grave;  and  to  Mr.  W.  B. 
Yeats  for  The  Death  of  Cuchulain. 


THE    GOLDEN    TREASURY    OF 
LONGER    POEMS 


THE  KNIGHTES  TALE  l 

WHILOM,  as  old?  stories  tellen  us, 

Ther  was  a  duk  y-named  Theseus ; 

Of  Athens  he  was  lord  and  governour, 

And  in  his  tyme  such  a  conquerour, 

That  gretter  was  ther  non  under  the  sonn^. 

Ful  many  a  rich*  contree  had  he  wonne ; 

That  with  his  wisdom  and  his  chivalrie 

He  conquered  al  the  realme  of  Femynye, 

That  whilom  was  i-cleped  Scythia; 

And  wedded  hath  the  queen  Hippolyta, 

And  brought  her  home  with  him  to  his  contree, 

With  moche  glorie  and  gret  solemnitee, 

And  eek  her  youngs  sister  Emelye. 

And  thus  with  victorie  and  with  melodye 

Let  I  this  noble  duk  to  Athens  ryde, 

And  al  his  host,  in  armes  him  biside. 

And  certes,  were  it  not  too  long  to  heere, 

I  wolde  have  told  you  fully  the  manere, 

How  wonnen  was  the  realm  of  Femenye 

By  Theseus,  and  by  his  chivalrye ; 

And  of  the  gret?  bataille  for  the  nonce 

Bytwix  Athenes  and  the  Amazons ; 

And  how  besieged  was  Hippolyta, 

The  fain?  hardy  queen  of  Scythia ; 

And  of  the  feste  that  was  at  her  weddynge, 

And  of  the  tempest  at  her  home  comynge ; 

1  In  this  version  by  Arthur  Burrell,  M.A.,  the  spelling  has  been 
slightly  modernised,  and  some  difficulties  of  vocabulary  have  been 
cleared  away.  Some  care  has  been  taken  to  preserve  Chaucer's  melody. 
The  italic  "  e  "  is  to  be  very  lightly  sounded,  so  lightly  that  the  sound 
is  hinted  at,  rather  than  heard. 

I 


THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

.    i  B;ut  al-  that  thing  I  most  as  now  forbere. 

i  •  I  have,  Sod  .wot,  through  a  large  feeld  to  fare, 
And  weake  be  the  oxen  in  my  plough, 
The  remnaunt  of  the  tale  is  long  inough ; 
I  wol  not  stop  a  man  of  al  this  rowte. 
Lat  every  felawe  telle  his  tale  aboute, 
And  lat  see  now  who  shal  the  soper  wynne, 
And  where  I  lafte,  I  wolde  agayn  begynne. 

This  duk,  of  whom  I  make  mencioun, 
When  he  was  comen  almost  unto  the  toun, 
In  al  his  wealth  and  in  his  moste  pryde, 
He  was  war,  as  he  cast  his  eye  aside, 
Wher  that  ther  kneled  in  the  hye  weye 
A  companye  of  ladies,  tweye  and  tweye, 
Ech  like  the  other,  clad  in  clothes  blake; 
But  such  a  cry  and  such  a  wo  they  make, 
That  in  this  world  no  creature  lyvynge, 
Hath  herde  such  another  lamentynge, 
And  of  that  cry  stinten  they  never  wolde, 
Til  they  the  reynes  of  his  bridel  holde. 
"  What  folk  be  ye  that  at  myn  horn  corny nge 
Perturben  so  my  feste  with  cryenge?  " 
Quoth  Theseus,  "  have  ye  so  gret  envye 
To  myn  honour,  that  thus  compleyne  and  crie  ? 
Or  who  hath  you  injured,  or  offendid  ? 
Nay  tell  it  me  if  it  may  be  amendid ; 
And  why  that  ye  be  clad  thus  al  in  blak?  " 

The  oldest  lady  of  them  alle  spak, 
When  she  hadde  swowned  with  a  dedly  chere, 
That  it  was  pity  for  to  see  or  heere ; 
And  seyde:  "  Lord,  to  whom  Fortune  hath  geven 
Victorie,  and  as  a  conquerour  to  lyven, 
Noughte  greveth  us  youre  glorie  and  honour; 
But  we  beseechen  mercy  and  socour. 
Have  mercy  on  oure  wo  and  oure  distresse. 
Som  drope  of  pitee,  thurgh  youre  gentilnesse, 
Uppon  us  wretchede  wommen  lat  thou  falle. 
For  certes,  lord,  ther  is  noon  of  us  alle, 
That  hath  not  been  a  duchesse  or  a  queene; 
Now  be  we  caytifs,  as  it  is  wel  seene: 
Thanked  be  Fortune,  and  her  false  wheel, 
That  no  estat  assureth  to  be  weel. 
And  certes,  lord,  to  abiden  youre  presence 


LONGER   POEMS 

Here  in  the  temple  of  the  goddesse  Clemence 

We  have  ben  waytynge  al  this  fourt*night; 

Now  helpe  us,  lord,  since  it  is  in  thy  might. 

I  wretch*,  which  that  wepe  and  wayll*  thus, 

Was  whilom  wyf  to  kyng  Capaneus, 

That  died  at  Thebes,  cursed  be  that  day, 

And  all*  we  that  be  in  this  array, 

And  maken  alle  this  lamentacioun, 

We  leften  alle  oure  housbondes  at  the  toun, 

Whil  that  the  sieg*  ther  about*  lay. 

And  yet  the  old*  Creon,  welaway! 

That  lord  is  now  of  Theb*s  the  citee, 

Fulfilde  of  ire  and  of  iniquitee, 

He  for  despyt.  and  for  his  tyrannye, 

To  do  the  deed*  bodyes  vilonye, 

Of  alle  oure  lord*s,  which  that  be  i-slawe, 

Hath  alle  the  bodies  on  an  heep  y-drawe, 

And  will  not  suffre  them  by  no  assent 

Neither  to  be  y-buried  nor  i-brent, 

But  maketh  hound*s  ete  them  in  despite." 

And  with  that  word,  without*  more  respite. 

They  fillen  flat,  and  criden  piteously, 

"  Have  on  us  wretched  wommen  som  mercy, 

And  lat  oure  sorrow  synken  in  thyn  hert*." 

This  gentil  duk  doun  from  his  courser  stert* 

With  hert*  piteous,  when  he  herde  them  speke. 

Him  thought*  that  his  hert*  wold*  breke, 

Whan  he  saw  them  so  piteous  and  so  poor, 

That  whilom  weren  of  so  gret  honour. 

And  in  his  arm*s  he  them  alle  up  hente, 

And  them  conforteth  in  ful  good  entente; 

And  swor  his  oth,  as  he  was  trew*  knight, 

He  wold*  do  for  them  as  wel  he  might 

And  on  the  tyraunt  Creon  vengeance  take, 

That  al  the  people  of  Grec*  shold*  speke 

How  Creon  was  of  Theseus  y-served, 

As  one  that  hath  his  deth  right  wel  deserved. 

And  right  anon,  without*  more  delaye 

His  baner  he  desplayeth,  and  took  his  waye 

To  Theb*s-ward,  and  al  his  host  bysyde; 

Nor  near  Athen*s  wolde  he  go  nor  ryde, 

Nor  take  his  es*  fully  half  a  day, 

But  onward  on  his  way  that  nyght  he  lay; 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

And  sente  anon  Hippolyta  to  go, 
And  Emelye  hir  yonge  sister  too, 
Unto  the  toun  of  Athenes  for  to  d welle ; 
And  forth  he  rode;  ther  is  no  more  to  telle. 

The  red  statue  of  Mars  with  spere  and  targe 
So  shyneth  in  his  white  baner  large, 
That  alle  the  feeldes  gliter  up  and  doun ; 
And  by  his  baner  was  borne  his  pennon 
Of  gold  ful  riche,  in  which  was  set  to  view 
The  Minatour  which  that  in  Crete  he  slew. 
Thus  rode  this  duk,  thus  rode  this  conquerour, 
And  in  his  host  of  chevalrie  the  flour, 
Til  that  he  cam  to  Thebes,  and  alighte 
Fay  re  in  a  feeld  wher  as  he  thought  e  to  fights. 
But  shortly  for  to  speken  of  this  thing, 
With  Creon,  which  that  was  of  Thebes  kyng, 
He  faught,  and  slew  him  manly  as  a  knight 
In  plain  bataille,  and  putte  his  folk  to  flight; 
And  by  assault  he  wan  the  citee  after, 
And  rente  doun  bothe  wal,  and  sparre,  and  rafter; 
And  to  the  ladies  he  restored  agayn 
The  bones  of  their  housbondes  that  were  slayn, 
To  do  exequies,  as  was  then  the  guise. 
But  it  were  al  too  long  for  to  devyse 
The  grete  clamour  and  the  lamentynge 
Which  that  the  ladies  made  at  the  brennynge 
Of  the  bodyes,  and  the  grete  honour 
That  Theseus  the  noble  conquerour 
Doth  to  the  ladyes,  when  they  from  him  wente. 
But  shortly  for  to  telle  is  myn  entente. 
Whan  that  this  worthy  duk,  this  Theseus, 
Hath  Creon  slayn,  and  Thebes  wonne  thus, 
Stille  in  the  feelde  he  took  al  night  his  reste, 
Arid  dide  with  al  the  contree  as  he  list. 

To  ransake  in  the  heap  of  bodyes  dede 
Them  for  to  strip  of  harness  and  of  wede, 
The  searchers  diden  businesse  and  cure, 
After  the  bataile  and  discomfiture, 
And  so  bifel,  that  in  the  heap  they  founde, 
Thurgh  pierced  with  many  a  grevous  blody  wounde, 
Two  yonge  knightes  lying  by  and  by, 
Both  in  one  coat  of  arms  wrought  richely ; 
Of  whiche  two,  Arcite  hight  the  one, 


LONGER  POEMS 

And  the  other  knight  was  named  Palamon. 

Not  fully  quyk,  nor  fully  deed  they  were, 

But  by  their  coat  armure,  and  by  their  gear, 

Heralds  knewe  them  wel  in  special, 

As  knights  that  weren  of  the  blood  royal 

Of  Thebes,  and  of  sistren  tuo  i-born. 

Out  of  the  heap  the  searchers  have  them  torn, 

And  have  them  caried  softe  unto  the  tente 

Of  Theseus,  and  ful  sone  he  them  sente 

To  Athenes,  for  to  dwellen  in  prisoun 

Perpetuelly,  he  wolde  no  ransom. 

And  this  duk  when  he  hadd^  thus  i-doon, 

He  took  his  host,  and  horn  he  rode  anon 

With  laurel  crowned  as  a  conquerour; 

And  there  he  lyveth  in  joye  and  in  honour 

Al  through  his  lyf;  what  wille  ye  word^s  mo? 

And  in  a  tour,  in  angwishe  and  in  wo, 

Dwell  evermo  wher  gold  may  profit  none 

This  Arcite  and  his  felawe  Palamon. 

Thus  passeth  yeer  by  yeer,  and  day  by  day, 

Til  it  fel  once  upon  a  morn  of  May 

That  Emelie,  far  fairer  to  be  scene 

Than  is  the  lilie  on  her  stalks  grene, 

And  fressher  than  the  May  with  floures  newe — 

For  with  the  rose  colour  strove  her  hewe, 

I  know  not  which  was  fairer  of  them  two — 

Ere  it  was  day,  as  she  was  wont  to  do, 

She  was  arisen,  and  al  redy  dight; 

For  May  wil  have  no  sloggardye  a  nyght. 

The  sesoun  priketh  every  gentil  herte, 

And  maketh  him  out  of  his  sleeps  sterte, 

And  seith,  "  Arise,  and  do  thin  observance." 

This  maked  Emelye  have  remembrance 

To  do  honour  to  May,  and  for  to  ryse. 

I-clothed  was  she  fressh  for  to  devyse. 

Her  yellow  hair  was  braided  in  a  tresse, 

Byhynde  her  bak,  a  yerde  long  I  gesse. 

And  in  the  gardyn  as  the  sonne  upriste 

She  walketh  up  and  doun  wher  as  she  liste. 

She  gathereth  floures,  party  whyte  and  red, 

To  make  a  subtle  gerland  for  her  hed, 

And  as  an  angel  hevenly  she  song. 

The  grete  tour,  that  was  so  thikke  and  strong, 


THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Which  of  the  castel  was  the  cheef  dongeoun, 

(Ther  as  this  knightos  weren  in  prisoun, 

Of  which  I  tolde  yow,  and  idle  shal) 

Was  evene  joynging  to  the  garden  wal, 

Where  as  this  Emely  hadde  her  pleyynge, 

Bright  was  the  sonne,  and  cleer  was  the  mornyng, 

And  Palamon,  this  woful  prisoner, 

As  was  his  wont,  by  leve  of  his  gayler 

Was  risen,  and  roamed  in  a  chambre  on  high, 

Where  he  could  al  the  noble  citee  espye, 

And  eek  the  garden,  ful  of  braunches  grene, 

In  which  that  Emelye  the  fresshe  and  shene 

Was  in  her  walk,  and  romed  up  and  doun. 

This  sorweful  prisoner,  this  Palamon, 

Goth  in  the  chambre  roamyng  to  and  fro, 

And  to  himself  compleynyng  of  his  wo; 

That  he  was  born;  ful  ofte  he  seyd,  alas! 

And  so  byfel,  by  a  venture  or  case, 

That  thurgh  a  wyndow  thikke  and  many  a  barre 

Of  iren  greet  and  square  as  eny  sparre, 

He  cast  his  eyen  upon  Emelya, 

And  therwithal  he  blinked  and  cryed,  a ! 

As  that  he  stongen  were  unto  the  herte. 

And  with  that  crye  Arcite  anon  up  sterte, 

And  seydtf,  "  Cosyn  myn,  what  eyleth  thee, 

That  art  so  pale  and  deedly  for  to  see  ? 

Why  criedest  thou  ?  who  hath  thee  doon  offence  ? 

For  Goddtfs  love,  tak  al  in  pacience 

Oure  prisoun,  for  it  may  non  other  be; 

Fortune  hath  geven  us  this  adversitee. 

Som  wikked  aspect  or  disposicioun 

Of  Saturne,  by  sum  constellacioun, 

Hath  geven  us  this,  though  gainst  it  we  had  sworn ; 

So  stood  the  heven  when  that  we  were  born; 

We  moste  endure  it:   this  is  the  short  and  pleyn." 

This  Palamon  answered,  and  seyde  ageyn, 
"  Cosyn,  for-sothe,  of  this  opynyoun. 
Thou  hast  a  veyn  imaginacioun. 
This  prisoun  caused  me  not  for  to  crye. 
But  I  was  hurt  right  now  thorough  myn  eye 
Into  myn  herte,  that  wil  my  bane  be. 
The  fairnesse  of  the  lady  that  I  see 
Yonde  in  the  gardyn  roming  to  and  fro, 


LONGER  POEMS 

Is  cause  of  al  my  cry y ing  and  my  wo. 
I  know  not  whether  womman  or  goddesse ; 
But  Venus  is  it,  sothly  as  I  gesse." 
And  therwithal  on  knees  adoun  he  fel, 
And  seyd^r   "  Venus,  if  it  be  youre  wil 
You  in  this  gardyn  thus  to  transfigure, 
Bifore  me  sorrowful  wretched  creature, 
Out  of  this  prisoun  help  that  we  may  scape. 
And  if  so  be  oure  destynee  be  shape, 
By  word  eterne  to  die  in  this  prisoun, 
On  our  lineage  have  sum  compassioun, 
That  is  so  lowe  y-brought  by  tyrannye." 
And  with  that  word  Arcite  gan  espye 
Where  that  this  lady  roamed  to  and  fro. 
And  with  that  sight  her  beauty  hurt  him  so, 
That  if  that  Palamon  was  wounded  sore, 
Arcite  is  hurt  as  moche  as  he,  or  more. 
And  with  a  sigh  he  seyde  piteously: 
"  The  fresshtf  beauty  sleeth  me  suddenly 
Of  her  that  roameth  yonder  in  the  place; 
And  save  I  have  her  mercy  and  her  grace 
That  I  may  see  her  beauty  day  by  day, 
I  am  but  deed;  ther  is  no  more  to  seye." 
This  Palamon,  whan  he  those  word^s  herde, 
Dispiteously  he  loked,  and  answerede : 
"  Whether  sayst  thou  in  ernest  or  in  pley?  " 
"  Nay,"  quoth  Arcite,  "  in  ernest  in  good  fey. 
God  helpe  me  so,  ful  loth  am  I  to  pleye." 
This  Palamon  gan  knytte  his  browns  tweye : 
"  It  would  not  be  to  thee  a  gret  honour, 
For  to  be  false,  and  for  to  be  tray  tour 
To  me,  that  am  thy  cosyn  and  thy  brother 
I-sworn  ful  deepe,  and  each  of  us  to  other, 
That  never  even  for  death  and  for  his  paine, 
Til  life  shal  departs  from  us  twayne, 
Neyther  of  us  in  love  to  hynder  other, 
Nor  in  no  other  case,  my  deare  brother; 
But  that  thou  shuldest  trewly  further  me 
In  every  case,  and  I  shal  further  thee. 
This  was  thyn  othe,  and  myn  also  certayn; 
I  wot  right  wel,  thou  darst  it  not  withsayn. 
Thus  art  thou  sworn  to  help  me  out  of  doute. 
And  now  thou  woldest  falsely  be  aboute 


THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY  OF 

To  love  my  lady,  whom  I  love  and  seek, 

And  ever  shal,  until  myn  herte  break. 

Now  certes,  false  Arcite,  thou  shalt  not  so. 

I  loved  her  first,  and  tolde  thee  my  woe 

That  thou  shouldst  help  me  as  my  brother  sworn 

To  further  me,  as  I  have  told  biforn. 

For  which  thou  art  i-bounden  as  a  knight 

To  helpe  me,  if  it  lay  in  thy  might, 

Or  else  thou  art  false,  I  dare  wel  sayn." 

To  this  Arcite  ful  proudly  spake  agayn. 

"  Thou  shalt,"  quoth  he,  "  be  rather  false  than  I. 

But  thou  art  false,  I  telle  thee  utterly. 

For  par  amour  I  loved  her  first  ere  thou. 

What  wilt  thou  sayn?  thou  knewest  not  yet  now 

Whether  she  be  a  woman  or  goddesse. 

Thyn  is  affectioun  for  holynesse, 

And  myn  is  love,  as  for  a  creature; 

For  which  I  tolde  thee  myn  a  venture 

As  to  my  cosyn,  and  my  brother  sworn. 

Suppose,  that  thou  lovedest  her  biforn; 

Knowest  thou  not  wel  the  olde  clerkes  saw, 

That  none  shal  geve  a  lover  any  lawe, 

Love  is  a  grettere  lawe,  by  my  pan, 

Than  may  be  given  to  any  erthly  man  ? 

Therfore  posityf  lawe,  and  such  decree, 

Is  broke  alway  for  love  in  each  degree. 

A  man  must  needes  love  when  al  is  said. 

He  may  nought  flee  it,  though  he  shulde  be  deed, 

Be  she  a  mayde,  or  be  she  widewe  or  wyf. 

And  eke  it  is  not  likely  al  thy  lyf 

To  standen  in  her  grace,  no  more  shal  I ; 

For  wel  thou  knowest  thyself  in  verity, 

That  thou  and  I  be  damned  to  prisoun 

Perpetuelly,  us  gayneth  no  ransom. 

We  stryve,  as  do  the  houndes  for  the  bone, 

They  foughte  al  day,  and  yet  their  part  was  none ; 

Ther  came  a  kyte,  while  that  they  were  wrothe, 

And  bare  away  the  bone  betwixt  them  bothe, 

And  therefore  at  the  kynges  court,  my  brother, 

Eache  man  is  for  himself,  ther  is  no  other. 

Love  if  thou  list ;  for  I  love  and  ay  shal ; 

And  sothly,  deare  brother,  this  is  al. 

Here  in  this  prisoun  muste  we  endure, 


LONGER  POEMS 

And  each  of  us  must  take  his  a  venture." 
Gret  was  the  stryf  and  long  bytwixe  them  tweye, 
If  that  I  hadde  leisure  for  to  seye; 
But  to  the  effect.   It  happed  on  a  day, 
(To  telle  it  you  as  shortly  as  I  may) 
A  worthy  duk  that  highte  Peirithous, 
That  felaw  was  to  the  duk  Theseus 
Since  that  same  day  that  they  were  children  lyte, 
Was  come  to  Athenes,  his  felawe  to  visite, 
And  for  to  pley,  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
For  in  this  world  he  loved  noman  so: 
And  he  loved  him  as  tenderly  agayn. 
So  wel  they  loved,  as  olde  bookes  sayn, 
That  whan  the  oon  was  deed,  sothly  to  telle, 
His  felawe  wente  and  sought  him  doun  in  helle ; 
But  of  that  story  lyst  me  nought  to  write. 
Duk  Peirithous  loved  wel  Arcite, 
And  hadde  him  known  at  Thebes  yeer  by  yeer, 
And  fynally  at  requeste  and  prayer 
Of  Peirithous.  withouten  any  ransom 
Duk  Theseus  him  let  out  of  prisoun, 
Frely  to  go,  wher  that  he  list  to  dwell, 
In  such  a  gyse,  as  I  shal  pleynly  tell. 
This  was  the  covenaunt,  playnly  to  endite, 
Betwixt  Theseus  and  this  Arcite: 
That  if  so  were,  that  Arcite  were  founde 
Evere  in  his  lyf,  on  any  place  or  grounde, 
In  eny  contree  of  this  Theseus, 
And  he  were  caught,  it  was  recorded  thus, 
That  with  a  swerde  sharpe  he  sholde  dye; 
Withouten  any  other  remedy, 
He  took  his  leeve,  and  horn  ward  he  him  spedde; 
Let  him  be  war,  in  daunger  lieth  his  head. 
How  gret  a  sorrow  sunreth  now  Arcite. 
The  deth  he  feleth  thorugh  his  herte  smyte; 
He  weepeth,  weyleth,  cryeth  piteously; 
To  slay  himself  he  wayteth  privily. 
He  seyde,  "  Alias  the  day  that  I  was  born! 
Now  is  my  prisoun  werse  than  was  biforn; 
Now  am  I  doomed  eternally  to  dwelle 
Not  only  in  purgatorie,  but  in  helle. 
Alias !  that  ever  I  knewe  Peirithous ! 
For  else  I  had  y-dwelt  with  Theseus 


io         THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

I-fetered  in  his  prisoun  for  ever  mo. 

Than  had  I  been  in  bliss,  and  not  in  woe. 

Only  the  sight  of  her,  whom  that  I  serve, 

Though  that  her  grace  I  may  not  even  deserve, 

Wold  have  sufficed  right  ynough  for  me. 

0  dere  cosyn  Palamon,"  quoth  he, 

te  Thyn  is  the  victorie  of  this  a  venture, 

Ful  blisfully  in  prisoun  to  endure; 

In  prisoun?  nay,  certes  in  paradys ! 

Wei  hath  fortune  y-torned  thee  the  dice, 

That  hath  the  sight  of  her,  and  I  the  absence. 

For  possible  is,  since  thou  hast  her  presence, 

And  art  a  knight,  a  worthi  and  an  able, 

That  by  som  case,  since  fortune  is  chaungable, 

Thou  maist  to  thy  desir  somtyme  atteyne. 

But  I  that  am  exiled,  and  barren 

Of  alk  grace,  am  in  so  gret  despeir, 

That  neither  water,  erthe,  nor  fyr,  nor  air, 

Nor  creature,  that  of  them  maked  is, 

May  ever  helpe  or  comfort  me  in  this. 

Wei  ought  I  die  in  wanhope  and  distresse; 

Farwel  my  lyf  and  al  my  jolynesse. 

Alias !  why  blamen  folk  so  in  comune 

The  providence  of  God,  or  else  fortune, 

That  giveth  them  ful  ofte  in  many  a  gyse 

Wei  better  than  they  can  themselves  devyse  ? 

One  man  desireth  for  to  have  richesse, 

That  cause  is  of  his  murder  or  gret  seeknesse. 

And  one  man  wolde  out  of  his  prisoun  fayn, 

That  in  his  hous  is  by  his  servants  slayn. 

Infinite  harass  be  in  this  matere ; 

We  never  know  what  thing  we  pray  en  here. 

We  fare  as  he  that  dronke  is  as  a  mouse. 

A  dronke  man  wot  wel  he  hath  an  hous, 

But  he  not  knoweth  which  the  way  is  thider, 

And  to  a  dronke  man  the  wey  is  slider, 

And  certes  in  this  world  so  faren  we. 

We  seeken  faste  after  felicitee, 

But  we  go  wrong  ful  ofte  trewely. 

Thus  may  we  see  alle  day,  and  namely  I, 

That  thought  I  had  a  gret  opinioun, 

That  if  I  mighte  skape  fro  prisoun, 

Then  had  I  been  in  joye  and  perfyt  health, 


LONGER   POEMS  n 

And  now  I  am  exiled  fro  my  wealth. 
Since  that  I  may  not  see  you.  Emelye, 
I  am  but  deed;  ther  is  no  remedye." 

Uppon  that  other  syde  Palamon, 
When  that  he  wiste  that  Arcite  had  gone, 
Such  sorrow  maketh,  that  the  grete  tour 
Resowneth  of  his  yellying  and  clamour. 
The  very  feteres  of  his  legges  grete 
Were  of  his  bitter  salte  teres  wete. 
"  Alias!  "  quoth  he,  "  Arcita,  cosyn  myn, 
Of  al  oure  strif,  God  wot,  the  fruyt  is  thin. 
Thow  walkest  now  in  Thebes  at  thi  large, 
And  of  my  woe  thou  makest  litel  charge. 
Thou  maiste,  since  thou  hast  wysdom  and  manhede, 
Assemble  al  the  folk  of  oure  kyndred, 
And  make  a  werre  so  sharpe  in  this  citee. 
That  by  som  aventure,  or  by  som  trety, 
Thou  mayst  her  wynne  to  lady  and  to  wyf, 
For  whom  that  I  must  needes  lose  my  lyf. 
For  as  by  wey  of  possibilitee, 
Since  thou  art  at  thi  large  of  prisoun  free, 
And  art  a  lord,  gret  is  thy  a vantage, 
More  than  is  myn,  that  sterve  here  in  a  cage. 
For  I  must  weepe  and  weyle,  whil  that  I  lyve, 
With  al  the  woe  that  prisoun  may  me  give, 
And  eek  with  peyne  that  love  me  giveth  also, 
That  doubleth  al  my  torment  and  my  woe." 
Ther  with  the  fire  of  jelousye  upsterte 
Withinne  his  brest,  and  caught  him  by  the  herte 
So  madly,  that  he  like  was  to  byholde 
The  box-tree,  or  the  asshen  deed  and  colde. 
Then  seyde;  "  0  goddes  cruel,  that  governe 
This  world  with  byndyng  of  your  word  eterne, 
And  written  in  the  table  of  adamant 
Is  all  your  will  and  youre  eterne  graunte, 
How  is  mankynde  more  by  you  held 
Than  is  the  sheep,  that  lieth  in  the  field  ? 
For  slayn  is  man  right  as  another  beste, 
And  dwelleth  eek  in  prisoun  and  arreste, 
And  hath  seknesse,  and  greet  adversitee, 
And  ohe  tymes  gilteles,  parde. 
What  governaunce  is  in  youre  prescience, 
That  giltdes  tormenteth  innocence  ? 


12          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  yet  encreaseth  this  al  my  penaunce, 
That  man  is  bounden  to  this  observaunce 
For  Goddes  sake  to  conquer  al  his  wille, 
When  every  beste  may  al  his  lust  fulfille. 
And  when  a  beste  is  deed,  he  hath  no  peyne ; 
But  man  after  his  deth  must  wepe  and  pleyne, 
Though  in  this  world  he  have  care  and  woe. 
Withouten  doute  he  shall  have  peynes  mo. 
The  answer  of  this  I  lew  to  divinis, 
But  wel  I  wot,  that  in  this  world  gret  pyne  is. 
Alias !  I  see  a  serpent  or  a  theef, 
That  unto  many  a  man  hath  done  mescheef, 
Go  at  his  large,  and  where  him  lust  may  turne. 
But  I  muste  be  in  prisoun  through  Saturne, 
And  eek  through  Juno,  jealous  and  eke  wood, 
That  hath  destroyed  wel  nigh  al  the  blood 
Of  Thebes,  with  his  waste  walks  wyde. 
And  Venus  sleeth  me  on  that  other  syde 
For  jelousye,  and  fere  of  him — Arcyte." 

Now  wol  I  stynte  of  Palamon  a  lite, 
And  lete  him  in  his  prisoun  stille  dwelle, 
And  of  Arcita  forth  then  wil  I  telle. 
The  somer  passeth,  and  the  nightes  longe 
Encreasen  double  wise  the  peynes  stronge 
Bothe  of  the  lover  and  the  prisoner. 
I  know  not  which  one  is  the  wofuller. 
For  shortly  for  to  sey,  this  Palamoun 
Perpetuelly  is  damned  in  prisoun, 
In  cheynes  and  in  feteres  to  be  deed ; 
And  Arcite  is  exiled  upon  his  hed 
For  evere  mo  as  out  of  that  contree, 
And  nevere  mo  shal  he  his  lady  see. 
Now  loveres  axe  I  you  this  question, 
Who  hath  the  worse,  Arcite  or  Palamon  ? 
That  one  may  see  his  lady  day  by  day, 
But  in  prisoun  he  muste  dwelle  alway. 
That  other  where  him  luste  may  ryde  or  go, 
But  see  his  lady  shal  he  never  mo. 
Now  deem  it  as  you  liste,  ye  that  can, 
For  I  wil  telle  forth  as  I  bigan. 

When  that  Arcite  to  Thebes  come  was, 
Ful  oft  a  day  he  moaned  and  seyd  alas ! 
For  see  his  lady  shal  he  never  mo. 


LONGER  POEMS  13 

And  shortly  to  concluden  al  his  woe, 

So  moche  sorrow  had  never  creature, 

That  is  or  shal  be  while  the  world  may  dure. 

His  sleep,  his  mete,  his  drynk  is  him  byraft, 

That  lene  he  waxeth,  and  drye  as  eny  shaft. 

His  eyen  hollow,  grisly  to  biholde; 

His  hew£  yellow,  and  pale  as  asshen  colde, 

And  solitary  he  was,  and  ever  alone, 

And  waillyng  al  the  night,  making  his  mone. 

And  if  he  herde  song  or  instrument, 

Then  wolde  he  wepe,  he  might  not  be  silent; 

So  feble  were  his  spirits,  and  so  lowe, 

And  chaunged  so,  that  no  man  coulde  knowe 

His  spechtf  nor  his  vois,  though  men  it  herde. 

And  in  his  look,  for  al  the  world  he  fared 

Naught  only  lyke  the  lovers  heaviness 

Of  Cupido,  but  rather  lik  madnesse, 

Engendred  of  humour  melancolyk, 

In  his  forehead  and  brains  fantastic. 

And  shortly  turned  was  all  up-so-doun 

Bothe  habit  and  eek  disposicioun 

Of  him,  this  woful  lovere  Dan  Arcite. 

What  shulde  I  alway  of  his  woe  endite  ? 

When  he  endured  had  a  yeer  or  tuo 

This  cruel  torment,  and  this  peyne  and  woe, 

At  Thebes,  in  his  con  tree,  as  I  seyde, 

Upon  a  night  in  sleep  as  he  him  leyde, 

Him  thought  that  how  the  winged  god  Mercuric 

Byforn  him  stood,  and  bad  him  to  be  merry. 

His  slepy  staff  in  hond  he  bar  upright ; 

An  hat  he  wered  upon  his  heres  bright. 

Arrayed  was  this  god  (as  he  took  keepe) 

As  he  was  when  he  Argus  laid  to  sleep; 

And  seyde?  thus:  "  To  Athenes  shalt  thou  wende; 

There  is  y-shapen  of  thy  woe  an  ende." 

And  with  that  word  Arcite  woke  and  sterte. 

"  Now  trewely  how  sore  that  me  smerte." 

Quoth  he,  "  to  Athenes  right  now  wil  I  fare; 

And  for  the  drede  of  deth  shal  I  not  spare 

To  see  my  lady,  that  I  love  utterlie ; 

In  her  presence  I  reck  not  if  I  die." 

And  with  that  word  he  caught  a  gret  myrour, 

And  saw  that  chaunged  was  al  his  colour, 


14          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  saw  his  visage  was  in  another  kynde. 

And  right  anon  it  ran  him  into  mynde, 

That  since  his  face  was  so  disfigured 

Of  maladie  the  which  he  had  endured, 

He  mights  wel,  if  that  he  kept  him  lowe, 

Lyve  in  Athene  ever  more  unknowe, 

And  see  his  lady  wel  nigh  day  by  day. 

And  right  anon  he  chaunged  his  aray, 

And  clothed  him  as  a  pore  laborer. 

And  al  alone,  save  only  one  squyer, 

That  knew  his  counsel  well  and  al  his  case, 

Which  was  disgysed  poorely  as  he  was, 

To  Athenes  is  he  gone  the  nexte  way. 

And  to  the  court  he  went  upon  a  day, 

And  at  the  gate  he  profred  his  servyse. 

To  dragge  and  drawe,  what-so  men  wolde  devyse 

And  shortly  on  this  matter  for  to  seyn, 

He  fel  in  office  with  a  chamberleyn, 

The  which  that  dwellyng  was  with  Emelye. 

For  he  was  wys,  and  couldtf  sone  aspye 

Of  every  servaunt,  which  that  served  there. 

Wel  coulde  he  hew^  woode,  and  water  bere, 

For  he  was  yonge  and  mighty  for  the  nonce, 

And  also  he  was  long  and  bygge  of  bones 

To  do  what  eny  wight  can  him  devyse. 

A  yeer  or  two  he  was  in  this  servyse, 

Page  of  the  chambre  of  Emelye  the  bright; 

And  Philostrate  he  told  men  that  he  hight. 

But  half  so  wel  byloved  a  man  as  he 

There  never  was  in  court  of  his  degree. 

He  was  so  gentil  of  his  condicioun, 

That  throughout  al  the  court  was  his  renoun. 

They  seyde  that  it  were  a  charitee 

That  Theseus  would  advancen  his  degree 

And  putt  en  him  in  honourable  servyse, 

Ther  where  he  might  his  vertu  exercise. 

And  thus  withinne  a  while  his  name  spronge 

Bothe  of  his  dedes,  and  his  good*?  tonge, 

That  Theseus  hath  taken  him  so  neer 

That  of  his  chambre  he  made  him  be  squyer, 

And  gaf  him  gold  to  mayntene  his  degree; 

And  eek  men  brought  him  out  of  his  countree 

Fro  yeer  to  yeer  ful  pryvyly  his  rente; 


LONGER   POEMS  15 

But  honestly  and  shyly  he  it  spente, 
That  no  man  wondred  how  that  he  it  hadde. 
And  thre  yeer  in  this  wise  his  lyf  he  ladde, 
And  bare  him  so  in  pees  and  eek  in  warre, 
Ther  was  no  man  that  Theseus  loveth  more. 
And  in  this  bliss^  let  I  now  Arcite, 
And  speke  I  wil  of  Palamon  a  lyte. 

In  derknes  orrible  and  strong  prisoun 
This  seven  yeer  hath  lived  Palamoun, 
All  pined,  what  for  woe  and  for  distresse. 
Who  feleth  double  sorrow  and  hevynesse 
But  Palamon  ?  that  love  constreyneth  so, 
That  quite  out  of  his  witt  he  goth  for  woe ; 
And  eek  therto  he  is  a  prisoner 
Perpetuelly,  nat  only  for  a  yeer. 
Who  coude  ryme  in  Englissh  properly 
His  martirdom?  for-sothe  it  am  not  I; 
Therefore  I  passe  as  lightly  as  I  may. 
It  fel  that  in  the  seventhe  yeer  in  May 
The  thriddtf  night,  (as  old^  book^s  seyn, 
That  al  this  storie  tellen  mor^  pleyn) 
Were  it  by  a  venture  or  destinee, 
(As,  when  a  thing  is  shapen,  it  shal  be,) 
That  soone  after  the  mydnyght,  Palamoun 
By  helpyng  of  a  freend  brak  his  prisoun, 
And  fleeth  the  citee  fast  as  he  may  go, 
For  he  had  given  drinke  his  gayler  so 
Of  a  spicerie  and  of  a  certeyn  wyn, 
With  narcotykes  and  opie  of  Thebes  fyn, 
That  al  that  night  though  that  men  wolde  him  shake, 
The  gayler  sleep,  he  mights  nought  awake. 
And  thus  he  fleeth  as  fast  as  ever  he  may. 
The  night  was  short,  and  sone  cam  the  day, 
That  at  all  needs  he  most  himselven  hyde, 
And  to  a  grove  faste  ther  besyde 
With  fearful  foot  then  stalketh  Palamoun. 
For  shortly  this  was  his  opynyoun, 
That  in  that  grove  he  wolde  him  hyde  al  day, 
And  in  the  night  then  wolde  he  take  his  way 
To  Thebes- ward,  and  pray  his  frend^s  alle 
On  Theseus  to  helpe  him  to  battaile. 
And  shortly,  or  he  wolde  lose  his  lyf, 
Or  wynnen  Emelye  unto  his  wyf. 


16          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

This  is  theffect  of  his  intents  playn. 

Now  wil  I  torne  unto  Arcite  agayn, 

That  litel  wiste  how  near  him  was  his  care, 

Til  that  fortune  hath  brought  him  in  the  snare. 

The  busy  larke?,  messager  of  day, 
Saluteth  in  her  song  the  morning  gray ; 
And  fyry  Phebus  ryseth  up  so  bright, 
That  al  the  orient  laugheth  with  the  light, 
And  with  his  strem^s  dryeth  in  the  greves 
The  silver  drop^s,  hongyng  on  the  leeves. 
And  Arcite,  that  is  in  the  cours  royal 
With  Theseus,  his  squyer  principal, 
Is  risen,  and  loketh  on  the  mery  day, 
And  for  to  do  his  observance  to  May 
Remembryng  all  the  poynt  of  his  desire, 
He  on  his  courser,  proud  as  is  the  fire, 
Is  riden  to  the  feeld^s  him  to  pleye, 
Out  of  the  court,  were  it  a  myle  or  tweye. 
And  to  the  grove,  of  which  that  I  you  tolde, 
By  aventure  his  wey  he  gan  to  holde, 
To  maken  him  a  garland  for  the  morn, 
Were  it  of  woodbyn  or  of  hawe-thorn, 
And  lowde  he  song  against  the  sonne  sheens: 
"  May,  with  al  thy  floun?s  and  thy  greens, 
Welcome  be  thou,  thou  faire  f resshe  May ! 
I  hope  that  I  som  gren^  gtte  may." 
And  fro  his  courser,  with  a  lusty  herte, 
Into  the  grove  ful  lustily  he  sterte, 
And  in  a  pathe  he  romed  up  and  doun, 
Whereas  by  aventure  this  Palamoun 
Was  in  a  bushe,  that  no  man  might  him  see. 
Ful  sore  afered  of  his  deth  was  he, 
And  nothing  knew  he  that  it  was  Arcite: 
God  wot  he  wolde  have  trowed  it  ful  lite. 
For  soth  it  hath  been  seyd  ful  many  yeres, 
That  feeldes  have  eyen,  and  the  woode  hath  eeres. 
It  is  ful  wise  to  bear  an  evene  minde, 
At  everich  hour  the  foe  his  foe  may  finde. 
Ful  litel  wot  Arcite  of  his  felawe, 
That  was  so  nigh  to  herken  all  his  sawe, 
For  in  the  busche  he  sitteth  now  ful  stille. 
Whan  that  Arcite  had  romed  al  his  fille, 
And  songen  al  the  roundel  lustily, 


LONGER   POEMS  17 

Into  a  studie  he  fel  sodeynly, 

As  do  these  lovers  in  there  queynt  manere. 

Now  in  the  toppe,  now  lying  in  the  mire, 

Now  up,  now  doun,  as  boket  in  a  welle. 

Right  as  the  Friday,  sothly  for  to  telle, 

Now  it  shyneth,  and  now  reyneth  faste, 

Right  so  gan  fickel  Venus  overcasts 

The  hertes  of  her  folk,  right  as  her  day 

Is  fickel,  right  so  chaungeth  her  aray. 

Seldom  is  Friday  like  each  other  day. 

Whan  that  Arcite  hadde  songe,  he  gan  to  stay. 

And  sette  him  doun  withouten  eny  more: 

"  Alas!  "  quoth  he,  "  that  day  that  I  was  bore! 

How  longe  Juno,  thurgh  thy  crueltee 

Wilt  thou  destroyen  Thebes  the  citee? 

Alias !  i-brought  is  to  confusioun 

The  blood  royal  of  Cadme  and  Amphioun: 

Of  Cadmus,  which  that  was  the  firsts  man 

That  Thebes  built,  or  first  the  toun  bygan, 

And  of  that  citee  first  was  crowned  kyng, 

Of  his  lynage  am  I,  and  his  ofspring 

By  verray  lyne,  and  of  his  stock  royal : 

And  now  I  am  so  caytyf  and  so  thral, 

That  he  that  is  my  mortal  enemy, 

I  serve  him  as  his  squyer  poorely. 

And  yet  doth  Juno  me  far  more  shame, 

For  I  dare  nought  byknowe  myn  owne  name, 

But  ther  as  I  was  wont  to  be  Arcite, 

Now  am  I  Philostrate,  nought  worth  a  myte. 

Alias !  thou  felle  Mars,  alas !  Juno, 

Thus  hath  youre  ire  owre  lynage  all  fordo, 

Save  only  me.  and  wretched  Palamoun, 

That  Theseus  hath  martyred  in  prisoun. 

And  over  al  this,  to  slay  me  utterly, 

Love  hath  his  fyry  dart  so  brennyngly 

I-sticked  thurgh  my  trewe  careful  herte, 

That  shapen  was  my  deth  before  my  shirte. 

Ye  slay  me  with  youre  eyen,  Emelye; 

Ye  be  the  cause  wherfore  that  I  dye. 

Of  al  the  remenant  of  myn  other  care 

Ne  sette  I  nought  the  value  of  a  tare, 

So  that  I  coude  do  ought  to  youre  pleasaunce." 

And  with  that  word  he  fel  doun  in  a  traunce 


i8         THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

A  longtf  tyme;  and  aftirward  upsterte 

This  Palamon,  that  thoughts  thurgh  his  hert<; 

He  felt  a  cold  sword  suddenly  to  glyde; 

For  ire  he  quaked,  he  wolde  no  longer  abyde. 

And  when  that  he  hath  herd  Arcites  tale,, 

As  he  were  mad,  with  face  deed  and  pale,, 

He  sterte  him  up  out  of  the  busshes  thikke, 

And  seyd:  "  Arcyto,  fals£  traitour  wikke, 

Now  art  thou  caught,  that  lovest  my  lady  so, 

For  whom  that  I  have  al  this  peyne  and  woe, 

And  art  my  blood,  and  to  my  counseil  sworn, 

As  I  ful  ofte  have  told  thee  here  byforn, 

And  has  deceived  here  duk  Theseus, 

And  falsly  chaunged  hast  thy  name  thus ; 

I  wil  be  deed,  or  else  thou  shalt  dye. 

Thou  shalt  not  love  my  lady  Emelye, 

But  I  wil  love  hire  only  and  no  mo ; 

For  I  am  Palamon  thy  mortal  fo. 

And  though  that  I  no  wepen  have  in  this  place, 

But  out  of  prisoun  am  y-stert  by  grace. 

I  drede  not  that  either  thou  shalt  dye, 

Or  that  thou  never  shalt  love  Emelye. 

Choose  which  thou  wilt,  for  thou  shalt  not  departe.' 

This  Arcita,  with  ful  despiteous  herte, 

Whan  he  him  knew,  and  had  his  tak  herde, 

As  fierce  as  lyoun  pulleth  out  a  swerde, 

And  seidtf  thus:  "  By  God  that  sitteth  above, 

Were  it  not  thou  art  sike  and  mad  for  love, 

And  eek  that  thou  no  wepen  hast  in  this  place, 

Thou  sholdest  never  out  of  this  grow  pace, 

Thou  sholdest  deyen  of  myn  owen  hond. 

For  I  defye  the  suretee  and  the  bond 

Which  that  thou  seyst  that  I  have  maad  to  thee. 

For,  very  fool,  know  well  that  love  is  free, 

And  I  will  love  hire  yet  for  al  thy  might. 

But,  for  thou  art  a  gentil  perfight  knight. 

And  woldest  lighten  for  her  by  batayle, 

Have  heere  my  trothe,  tomorrow  I  wil  not  fayle, 

Withouten  wittyng  of  eny  other  wight, 

That  heer  I  will  be  founden  as  a  knight, 

And  bryngen  harneys  right  inough  for  thee ; 

And  choose  the  best,  and  leave  the  worst  for  me. 

And  mete  and  drynke  this  night  wil  I  bryng 


LONGER  POEMS  19 

Inough  for  thee,  and  cloth  for  thy  beddynge. 
And  if  so  be  that  thou  my  lady  wynne, 
And  sle  me  in  this  wood  that  I  am  inne, 
Thou  maist  wel  have  thy  lady  as  for  me." 
This  Palamon  answereth,  "  I  graunt  it  thee." 
And  thus  they  be  depart  til  morning  light, 
Whan  ech  of  them  had  pledged  his  feith  to  fight. 

O  Cupide,  foe  of  alle  charitee ! 
O  King,  that  wolt  no  felaw  have  with  thee, 
Ful  soth  is  seyde,  that  love  and  eek  lordshipe 
Wol  not,  for  aught,  have  any  fellowship. 
Wel  fynden  that  Arcite  and  Palamoun. 
Arcite  is  ridden  anon  unto  the  toun, 
And  on  the  morrow,  ere  it  were  day  light, 
Ful  prively  two  armours  hath  he  dight, 
Bothe  suffisaunt  and  meto  for  to  do 
The  batayl  in  the  feeld  betwix  them  two. 
And  on  his  hors,  alone  as  he  was  borne, 
He  caryed  al  this  armour  him  biforn; 
And  in  the  grove,  at  tyme  and  place  i-sette, 
This  Arcite  and  this  Palamon  be  mette. 
Then  changen  gan  their  colour  in  their  face. 
Right  as  the  hunter  in  the  land  of  Trace 
That  stondeth  in  the  gapp^  with  a  spere, 
When  honted  is  the  lyoun  or  the  bere, 
And  hereth  him  com  rushing  in  the  graves. 
And  breking  both  the  bow^s  and  the  leves, 
And  thenketh,  "  Here  cometh  my  mortel  enemy, 
Without^  faile,  he  must  be  deed  or  I ; 
For  eyther  I  must  slay  him  at  the  gappe, 
Or  he  must  slee  me,  if  it  me  myshappe:  " 
Se  ferden  they,  in  changyng  of  their  hew, 
As  fer  as  eyther  of  them  other  knew. 
Ther  was  no  good  day,  ne  no  salutyng; 
But  streyt  withouten  word  or  rehersyng, 
Eche  one  of  them  helpeth  to  arm  the  other, 
As  friendly  as  he  were  his  owen  brother; 
And  thenntf  with  their  sharps  sperms  stronge 
They  thrusten  eche  at  other  wonder  longe. 
And  then  it  semede  that  this  Palamoun 
In  his  fightyng  were  as  a  mad  lyoun, 
And  as  a  cruel  tygre  was  Arcite : 
As  wildtf  boores  they  began  to  smyte, 


20         THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

That  frothen  white  as  fome,  in  anger  wood. 
Up  to  the  ancle  they  fought  in  there  blood. 
And  in  this  wise  I  lete  them  fightyng  welle; 
And  forthere  wil  I  of  duk  Theseus  telle. 

The  destinee  mynistre  general,, 
That  executeth  truly  over  all 
The  events,  that  God  hath  seen  and  seide  byforn; 
So  strong  it  is,  that  though  the  world  had  sworn 
The  contrary  of  a  thing  by  yea  or  nay, 
Yet  som  tyme  it  shal  falle  upon  a  day 
What  falleth  nought  within  a  thousand  yeere. 
For  certeynly  oure  appetites  here, 
Be  it  of  war,  or  peace,  or  hate,  or  love, 
Al  is  it  ruled  by  the  sight  above. 
This  mene  I  now  by  mighty  Theseus, 
That  for  to  hunten  is  so  desirous, 
And  namely  the  grete  hert  in  May, 
That  in  his  bed  ther  dawneth  him  no  day, 
He  is  not  clad,  and  redy  for  to  ryde 
With  hunt  and  horn,  and  houndes  him  byside. 
For  in  his  huntyng  hath  he  such  delyt, 
That  it  is  al  his  joye  and  appetyt 
To  be  himself  the  grete  hertes  bane, 
For  after  Mars  he  serveth  now  Dyane. 

Cleer  was  the  day,  as  I  have  told  ere  this, 
And  Theseus,  with  alb  joye  and  bliss, 
With  his  Hippolyta,  the  fayre  queene, 
And  Emelye,  clothed  al  in  greene, 
On  huntyng  be  thay  riden  royally. 
And  to  the  grove,  that  stood  ther  faste  by, 
In  which  ther  was  an  hert  as  men  him  tolde, 
Duk  Theseus  the  streyte  wey  hath  holde. 
And  to  the  place  he  rydeth  him  ful  right, 
Where  was  the  hert  y-wont  to  have  his  flight, 
And  over  a  brook,  and  so  forth  in  his  weye. 
This  duk  wil  have  of  him  a  cours  or  tweye 
With  hound^s,  such  as  he  can  best  comaunde. 
And  whan  this  duk  was  come  into  the  ground, 
Under  the  sonne  he  loketh,  and  right  anon 
Was  war  of  Arcite  and  of  Palamon, 
That  foughten  fierce,  as  it  were  bores  tuo; 
The  bright^  swerdes  went*  to  and  fro 
So  hideously,  that  with  the  leste  strook 


LONGER  POEMS  21 

It  seemeth  as  it  wold?  felle  an  oak; 
But  what  they  wer?,  nothing  did  he  ween. 
This  duk  his  hors  smot  with  his  spores  sheen, 
And  at  a  stert  he  was  betwixt  them  tuo, 
And  pulled  out  a  swerd  and  cried,  "  Hoo! 
Nomore,  on  peyne  of  losyng  of  your  hed. 
By  mighty  Mars,  anon  he  shal  be  ded, 
That  smyteth  eny  strook,  that  I  may  see ! 
But  tell?  me  what  maner  men  ye  be, 
That  be  so  hardy  for  to  tighten  here 
Without?  judge  or  other  officere, 
As  it  were  in  a  lyst?  royally?  " 
This  Palamon  answered*  hastily, 
And  seyd?:  "  Sir,  what  nedeth  word?s  mo? 
We  have  the  deth  deserved  both?  tuo. 
Tuo  woful  wretches  be  we,  and  caytyves, 
That  be  encombred  of  oure  own?  ly ves  ; 
And  as  thou  art  a  rightful  lord  and  judge, 
Give  neither  eny  mercy  nor  refuge. 
And  sle  me  first,  for  seynt?  charitee; 
But  sle  my  felaw  eek  as  wel  as  me. 
Or  sle  him  first;  for,  look  that  thou  know  him  right, 
This  is  thy  mortal  fo,  this  is  Arcite, 
That  fro  thy  lond  by  thee  is  banished, 
For  which  he  hath  deserved  to  be  ded. 
For  this  is  he  that  cam?  to  thi  gate 
And  seyd,  that  he  was  cleped  Philostrate. 
Thus  hath  he  cheated  thee  ful  many  a  yer, 
And  thou  hast  made  of  him  thy  cheef  squyer. 
And  this  is  he  that  loveth  Emelye. 
For  since  the  day  is  come  that  I  shal  dye, 
I  mak?  pleynly  my  confessioun, 
That  I  am  he,  the  woful  Palamoun, 
That  hath  thi  prisoun  broke  wikkedly. 
I  am  thy  mortal  fo,  and  it  am  I 
That  loveth  so  hot  Emely  the  bright, 
That  I  wil  dye  present  in  his  sight. 
Therefore  I  ask?  deeth  and  my  justice; 
But  slee  my  felaw  in  the  sam?  wyse, 
For  bothe  we  have  deserved  to  be  slayn." 
This  worthy  duk  answered  anon  agayn, 
And  seide:  "  This  is  a  short  conclusioun: 
Your  owne  mouth,  by  your  owne  confessioun, 


22          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Hath  damned  you  bothe,  and  I  wil  it  recorde. 

It  needeth  nought  to  hang  yow  with  the  corde. 

Ye  shal  be  deed  by  mighty  Mars  the  red !  " 

The  queen  anon  for  very  wommanhede 

Gan  for  to  wepe,  and  so  ded  Emelye, 

And  alle  the  ladies  in  the  companye. 

Great  pitee  was  it,  as  it  thought  them  alle, 

That  evere  such  a  chaunc^  shulde  falle; 

For  gentil  men  they  were  and  of  gret  estate, 

And  nothing  but  for  love  was  this  debate. 

And  saw  their  bloody  woundes  wyde  and  sore; 

And  alle  they  cryden,  bothe  less  and  more, 

"  Have  mercy,  Lord,  upon  us  wommen  alle!  " 

And  on  there  bare  knees  anon  they  falle, 

And  wolde  have  kissed  his  feet  right  as  he  stood, 

Til  at  the  laste  aslaked  was  his  mood; 

For  pitee  runneth  sone  in  gentil  herte. 

And  though  he  first  for  ire  quaked  and  sterte 

He  hath  it  al  considered  in  a  clause, 

The  trespas  of  them  bothe,  and  eek  the  cause : 

And  although  that  his  ire  there  gylt  accused, 

Yet  he,  in  his  resoun,  them  bothe  excused; 

And  thus  he  thought  that  every  maner  man 

Wil  help  himself  in  love  if  that  he  can, 

And  eek  delyver  himself  out  of  prisoun. 

And  in  his  hert  he  had  compassioun 

Of  wommen,  for  they  wepen  ever  as  one; 

And  in  his  gentil  hert  he  thought  anon, 

And  sothly  he  to  himself  he  seyde:  "  Fy 

Upon  a  lord  that  wil  have  no  mercy, 

But  be  a  lyoun  both  in  word  and  dede, 

To  them  that  be  in  repentaunce  and  drede, 

As  wel  as  to  a  proud  dispiteous  man, 

That  wol  maynteyntf  what  he  first  bigan. 

That  lord  hath  litel  of  discrecioun, 

That  in  such  case  knows  no  divisioun; 

But  wayeth  pride  and  humblenesse  as  one." 

And  shortly,  whan  his  ire  is  over-gon, 

He  gan  to  loke  on  them  with  lighter  eye, 

And  spak  these  sam*?  wordes  in  charity. 

"  The  god  of  love,  a!  benedicite, 

How  mighty  and  how  gret  a  lord  is  he ! 

Agaynst  his  might  there  standeth  no  obstacles, 


LONGER  POEMS  23 

He  may  be  cleped  a  god  for  his  miracles; ' 
For  he  can  maken  at  his  owen  gyse 
Of  every  herte,  al  that  he  wil  devyse. 
Lo  here  is  Arcite  and  here  Palamoun, 
That  freely  weren  out  of  my  prisoun, 
And  might  have  lyved  in  Thebes  royally, 
And  know  I  am  their  mortal  enemy. 
And  that  there  deth  lieth  in  my  might  also, 
And  yet  hath  love,  for  al  their  eyen  tuo, 
I-brought  them  hider  bothe  for  to  dye. 
Now  looke  ye,  is  nat  that  an  high  folye  ? 
Who  may  not  be  a  foole,  if  that  he  love? 
Byholde  for  Godd^s  sake  that  sitteth  above, 
See  how  they  blede.   Be  they  nought  wel  arrayed  ? 
Thus  hath  their  lord,  the  god  of  love,  them  payed 
Their  wages  and  their  fees  for  their  servise. 
And  yet  they  wenen  for  to  be  ful  wise, 
That  serven  love,  for  ought  that  may  bifalle. 
B'ut  this  is  yet  the  beste  game  of  alle, 
That  she,  for  whom  they  have  this  jelousye, 
Can  them  therfore  as  mochtf  thank  as  me. 
She  wot  no  more  of  al  this  hote  fare, 
By  God,  than  wot  a  cuckow  or  an  hare. 
But  al  must  be  assayed  hot  or  colde; 
A  man  must  be  a  fool  or  yong  or  olde ; 
I  wot  it  by  myself  ful  yore  agon : 
For  in  my  tyme  a  lover  was  I  one. 
And  since  that  I  knewe  well  of  lov^s  peyne, 
And  wot  how  sore  it  can  a  man  destreyne, 
As  he  that  hath  ben  oft  caught  in  his  trap, 
I  you  forge ve  wholly  this  myshappe, 
At  request  of  the  queen  that  kneleth  here, 
And  eek  of  Emely,  my  sister  deere. 
And  ye  shal  bothe  anon  unto  me  swere. 
That  never  ye  shal  harm  my  contree  deere, 
Nor  make  werre  on  me  by  night  or  day, 
But  be  my  freendes  in  alle  that  ye  may. 
I  will  forge  ve  this  trespas  every  whit." 
And  they  him  swore  his  axyng  faire  and  fit, 
And  him  for  lordship  and  for  mercy  prayde, 
And  he  them  graunted  mercy,  and  thus  he  sayde: 
"  To  speke  of  royal  lynage  and  riches 
Though  that  she  were  a  queen  or  a  pryncess, 
B  7*6 


24         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Ech  of  yow  both  is  worthy  douteless 

To  wedcte  when  tyme  is,  but  nontheles 

I  speke  as  for  my  sister  Emelye, 

For  whom  ye  have  this  stryf  and  jelousye, 

Ye  wot  youreself  she  may  not  weddtf  two 

At  once,  although  ye  faughten  ever  mo : 

That  one  of  yow,,  whether  he  be  loth  or  lief, 

He  may  go  play  uppon  an  ivy  leef ; 

This  is  to  say,  she  may  nought  haw  bothe, 

Al  be  ye  never  so  j clous,  or  so  lothe. 

Therefore  I  put  you  bothe  in  this  degree, 

That  ech  of  you  shal  have  his  destynee, 

As  him  is  shape,  and  herken  in  what  wyse; 

Lo  here  the  ende  of  that  I  shal  devyse. 

My  wil  is  this,  for  playn  conclusioun, 

Withouten  eny  repplicacioun, 

If  that  you  liketh,  tak  it  for  the  best, 

That  ech  of  you  shall  go  wherever  he  list 

Frely  withouten  raunsom  or  danger; 

And  this  day  fyfty  week^s,  fer  or  near, 

Ech  of  you  then  shal  bryng  an  hundred  knightes, 

Armed  for  lysto s  here  in  all  our  sightos 

Al  redy  to  contest  her  by  batayle. 

And  thus  commaunde  I  you  withouten  fayle 

Upon  my  trothe,  and  as  I  am  a  knight, 

That  which  of  yow  two  boihe  that  hath  might, 

This  is  to  sey,  that  whethir  he  or  thou 

May  with  his  hundred,  as  I  spak  of  now, 

Slay  his  contrary,  or  out  of  lystos  dryve, 

Him  shal  I  geve  faire  Erne!  ye  to  wyve 

To  whom  that  fortune  geveth  so  fair  a  grace. 

The  lystos  shal  I  make  here  in  this  place, 

And  God  so  wisly  on  my  sowle  have  ruth, 

As  I  shal  even  judge  be  in  truth. 

Ye  shul  no  othir  ende  with  me  make, 

That  one  of  yow  shal  either  be  ded  or  take. 

And  if  you  thinketh  this  is  wel  i-sayde, 

Say  your<?  say,  and  hold  yow  wel  apayde. 

This  is  youre  ende  and  youre  conclusioun.'' 

Who  loketh  lightly  now  but  Palamoun  ? 

Who  spryngeth  up  for  joy*  but  Arcite? 

Who  could  e  telle.  or  who  coude  wel  endite, 

The  joye  that  is  made  in  al  this  place 


LONGER  POEMS  25 

Whan  Theseus  hath  don  so  fair  a  grace? 
But  down  on  knees  wente  every  maner  wight, 
And  thanked  him  with  al  their  hertes  miht, 
And  namely  these  two  Thebans  of  his  grace. 
And  thus  with  good  hope  and  with  mery  face 
They  take  their  leve.  and  hom-ward  bothe  they  ryde 
To  Thebes-ward,  with  olde  walks  wyde. 

I  trowe  men  wold  deme  it  necligence, 
If  I  forgete  to  telle  the  dispence 
Of  Theseus,  that  goth  so  busily 
To  maken  up  the  lystes  royally. 
And  such  a  noble  theatre  to  see, 
I  dar  say  in  this  world  shal  never  be. 
The  circuite  of  it  was  a  myle  aboute, 
Walled  of  stoon,  and  dych£d  al  withoute. 
Round  was  the  shape,  in  maner  of  compass, 
Ful  of  degrees,  the  height  of  sixty  pace, 
That  when  a  man  was  set  in  one  degree 
He  stayed  nought  his  felaw  for  to  see. 

Est-ward  ther  stood  a  gate  of  marbul  whit, 
West- ward  another  such  in  opposit. 
And  shortly  to  conclude,  such  a  place 
Was  non  in  erthe  within  so  litel  space. 
In  al  the  lond  ther  was  no  craftesman 
That  geometry  or  arithmetic  can, 
Nor  portreyour,  nor  kerver  of  ymages, 
That  Theseus  gave  not  his  mete  and  wages 
The  theatre  for  to  maken  and  devyse. 
And  for  to  do  his  rite  and  sacrifise, 
His  est-ward  hath  upon  the  gate  above, 
In  worship  of  Venus,  goddess  of  love, 
Don  make  an  altar  and  an  oratory; 
And  westward  in  the  mynde  and  memory 
Of  Mars,  he  hath  i-maked  a  temple  hy 
That  coste  of  gold  and  silver  largely. 
And  northward,  in  a  toret  on  the  walle^ 
Of  alabaster  whit  and  red  coralle 
An  oratory  riche  for  to  see. 
To  clene  Dyane,  goddess  of  chastitee, 
Hath  Theseus  i-wrought  in  noble  wise. 
But  yit  had  I  forgeten  to  devyse 
The  nobil  kervyng,  and  the  portretures, 
The  shape,  and  countenaunce  of  the  figures, 


26         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

That  weren  in  these  oratories  three. 

First  in  the  temple  of  Venus  thou  may  see 
Wrought  in  the  wal,  ful  piteous  to  byholde, 
The  broken  slepes,  and  the  sights  colde; 
The  sacred  teeres,  and  the  lamentyng; 
The  fyry  strokes  and  the  desiryng, 
That  loves  servaunts  in  this  lyf  enduren ; 
The  othes  that  their  covenants  assuren. 
Plesance  and  hope,  desyr,  fool-hardynesse, 
Beautee  and  youthe,  lecherie  and  richesse, 
Charmes  and  sorcery,  lesynges  and  flatery, 
Dispense,  busynes,  and  jelousy, 
That  wered  of  yelow  goldes  a  gerland, 
And  a  cukkowe  sittyng  on  her  hand ; 
Festes,  and  instruments,,  carols,,  and  daunces, 
Lust  and  array,  and  al  the  circumstaunces 
Of  love,  which  I  rekned  and  reken  shal, 
Ech  by  the  other  were  peynted  on  the  wal. 
And  mo  than  I  can  make  of  mencioun. 
For  sothly  al  the  mount  of  Citheroun, 
Where  Venus  hath  her  principal  dwellyng, 
Was  shewed  on  the  wal  in  portrayyng 
With  alle  the  gardyn,  and  al  the  lustynes. 
Nought  was  forgot;  the  porter  Idelnesse, 
And  Narcisus  the  fayr  of  long  agon, 
And  al  the  foly  of  kyng  Salomon, 
And  al  the  grete  strengthe  of  Hercules, 
Thenchauntements  of  Medea  and  Cerces, 
And  of  Turnus  the  hard  fyry  corage, 
The  riche  Cresus  caytif  in  servage. 
Thus  may  we  see,  that  wisdom  and  riches, 
Beautee  and  sleighte,  strengthe  and  hardynes, 
May  not  with  Venus  holde  comparisoun, 
For  as  she  liste  she  turneth  up  or  doun. 
Lo,  al  this  folk  i-caught  were  in  her  trace, 
Til  they  for  wo  ful  often  sayde  alias. 
Sufficeth  this  ensample  one  or  tuo, 
Although  I  rekon  coud  a  thousend  mo. 
The  statu  of  Venus,  glorious  for  to  see, 
Was  naked  flotyng  in  the  large  see, 
And  from  the  navel  doun  al  covered  was 
With  waves  grene,  and  bright  as  eny  glas. 
In  her  right  hand  a  harpe  hadde  she, 


LONGER  POEMS  27 

And  on  her  bed,  ful  semely  for  to  see. 

A  rose  garland  swete  and  wel  smellyng, 

Above  her  heed  her  doves  were  flickering, 

Bifore  hir  stood  hir  sone  Cupido, 

Upon  his  shuldres  were  wynges  two; 

And  blynd  he  was,  as  it  is  often  scene ; 

A  bowe  he  bare  and  arrows  fair  and  keene. 

Why  shuld  I  not  as  wel  telle  you  alle 

The  portraiture,  that  was  upon  the  walk 

Within  the  temple  of  Mars  of  mighty  strength  ? 

Al  peynted  was  the  wal  in  bredth  and  length 

Like  to  the  hallos  of  the  grisly  place, 

Y-called  the  gret  temple  of  Mars  in  Thrace, 

Within  that  colde  and  frosty  regioun, 

Where  Mars  hath  built  his  sovereyn  mansion n. 

First  on  the  wal  was  peynted  a  foreste, 

In  which  ther  dwell£de  neyther  man  nor  beste, 

With  knotty  knarry  bareyn  trees  olde 

With  stubbes  sharpe  and  hideous  to  beholds; 

In  which  ther  ran  a  rumble  and  a  moan. 

As  though  a  storme  shulde  tear  the  branches  down : 

And  downward  wher  the  hil  to  the  plaine  is  bent, 

Ther  stood  the  temple  of  Mars  armypotent, 

Wrought  al  of  burned  steel,  of  which  the  entry 

Was  long  and  streyt,  and  ghastly  for  to  see. 

And  therout  came  a  blast  in  suche  wise, 

That  it  made  al  the  gates  for  to  rise. 

The  northern  light  in  at  the  dore  shone, 

For  wyndow  on  the  walk  was  ther  none, 

Through  which  men  might  the  light  of  day  discerne. 

The  dores  wer  alle  adamant  eterne, 

Y-clenched  overthwart  and  endelong 

With  iron  tough;  and,  for  to  make  it  strong, 

Every  pillar  the  temple  to  sustaine 

Was  round  and  greet,  of  iron  bright  and  sheene. 

Ther  saw  I  first  the  dark  imagining 

Of  felony,  and  al  the  compassyng; 

The  cruel  wrath,  as  eny  furnace  red; 

The  pickepurs,  and  eke  the  pale  Dread; 

The  smyler  with  the  knyf  under  his  cloke : 

The  stables  burnyng  with  the  blake  smoke; 

The  tresoun  of  the  murtheryng  in  the  bed; 

The  open  warres,  with  woundes  al  y-bled; 


28          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Conflict  with  bloody  knyf,  and  sharp  menace. 

Al  fill  of  shriekyng  was  that  sory  place. 

The  slayer  of  himself  yet  saw  I  ther, 

His  herte  blood  hath  bathed  al  his  hair; 

The  nayl  y-dryven  in  the  skull  at  nyght; 

The  colde  deth,  with  mouth  gapyng  upright. 

In  midst  of  al  the  temple  sat  Meschaunce, 

With  sory  comfort  and  evil  countynaunce. 

Ther  I  saw  Madness  laughyng  in  his  rage; 

Armed  complaint ,  alarm  and  fierce  outrage. 

The  body  in  the  bushe,  with  throte  y-bled  : 

A  thousand  slayne,  and  none  of  sickness  dead ; 

The  tiraunt,  with  the  prey  bi  force  y-refte; 

The  toune  distroyed,  there  was  no  thing  lefte. 

Ther  burnt  the  shippes  daunsyng  up  and  doun; 

Ther  dyed  the  hunter  by  the  wilde  lion  : 

The  sowe  eatyng  the  child  right  in  the  cradel; 

The  cook  y-skalded,  for  al  his  longe  ladel. 

Nought  was  forgot  the  ill-fortune  of  Mart; 

The  carter  over-ridden  by  his  cart, 

Under  the  wheel  ful  lowe  he  lay  adoun. 

Ther  wer  also  in  Mars  his  regioun, 

The  barbour,  and  the  butcher,  and  the  smyth 

That  forgeth  sharps  swordes  on  his  stith. 

And  al  above  y-peynted  in  a  tour 

Saw  I  Conquest  sittyng  in  grete  honour, 

The  scharpe  swerdtf  hangyng  over  his  hed 

Y- fastened  by  a  slender  twines  thread. 

Y-peynted  was  the  slaughter  of  Julius, 

Of  grete  Nero,  and  of  Antonius ; 

Al  be  that  at  that  tyme  they  were  unborn, 

Yet  was  their  deth  y-peynted  ther  beforn, 

By  menacyng  of  Mars,  each  ones  figure, 

So  was  it  shewed  in  the  pourtreture 

As  is  y-peynted  in  the  sterres  abovtf, 

Who  shal  be  slayn  or  who  shal  dye  for  love. 

Sufficeth  one  example  in  stories  olde, 

I  may  not  reken  them  alk,  though  I  wolde. 

The  statue  of  Mars  upon  a  carte  stood, 
Armed,  and  loked  grym  and  red  as  blood; 
And  over  his  hed  ther  shyneth  two  figures 
Of  sterres,  that  be  cleped  in  scriptures, 
The  one  Puella,  that  other  Rubius. 


LONGER  POEMS  29 

This  god  of  antics  was  arrayed  thus. 
A  wolf  ther  stood  byforn  him  at  his  feet 
With  eyen  red,  and  of  a  man  he  ate; 
With  subtil  pencel  peynted  was  this  storie, 
In  honouring  of  Mars  and  of  his  glorie. 

Now  to  the  temple  of  Dyane  the  chaste 
As  shortly  as  I  can  I  wil  me  haste, 
To  idle  you  al  the  descripcioun. 
Depeynted  be  the  walks  up  and  doun, 
Of  huntyng  and  of  shamefast  chastitee. 
Ther  saw  I  how  woful  Calystope, 
When  that  Dyane  was  agreved  with  her, 
Was  turned  from  a  womman  to  a  bere, 
And  after  was  she  made  the  lode-sterre; 
Thus  was  it  peynted,  I  can  say  no  more; 
Her  son  is  eek  a  star,  as  men  may  see. 
Ther  saw  I  Dyane  turned  intil  a  tree, 
I  mene  nought  the  hy  goddes  Dyane, 
But  Peneus  doughter,  the  whiche  highte  Dane. 
Ther  saw  I  Atheon  an  hert  i-maked, 
For  vengeance  that  he  saw  Dyane  al  naked; 
I  saw  how  that  his  houndes  have  him  caught 
And  eten  him,  for  that  they  knew  him  naught. 
Yit  peynted  was  a  lit  el  forthermore. 
How  Atthalaunce  huntyd  the  wild*?  bore, 
And  Melyagre,  and  many  another  mo, 
For  which  Dyan^  wrought  them  care  and  wo, 
Ther  saw  I  eek  ful  many  another  story, 
The  which  me  list  not  drawe  in  memory. 
This  goddess  on  an  hert  ful  hy  she  sat, 
With  smak  hound^s  al  aboute  her  feet, 
And  undernethe  her  feet  she  had  the  moone, 
Wexyng  it  was,  and  shulde  wan*?  soone, 
In  gaudtf  greene  her  statue  clothed  was, 
With  bo  we  in  hande,  and  arrows  in  a  case. 
Her  eyen  caste  she  ful  lowe  adoun, 
Where  Pluto  hath  his  derke  regioun. 
A  womman  travailyng  was  her  biforn, 
But  for  her  child  so  longe  was  unborn 
Ful  piteously  Lucyna  gan  she  calle, 
And  seyde,  "  Help,  for  thou  mayst  best  of  alle." 
Wei  coude  he  peynten  lyf-like  that  it  wrought, 
With  many  a  floren  he  the  hew^s  bought. 


30         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Now  be  these  list*s  made,  and  Theseus 
That  at  his  gret*  cost  arayed  thus 
The  temples  and  the  theatres  to  see, 
When  it  was  don,  it  liked  him  wonderly. 
But  stynt  I  wil  of  Theseus  a  lite, 
And  speke  of  Palamon  and  of  Arcite. 

The  day  approcheth  of  their  tourneying, 
That  ech*  shuld  an  hundred  knight*s  brynge, 
The  batail  to  maintain,  as  I  you  tolde; 
And  to  Athenes,  their  covenant  to  holde, 
Hath  eche  of  them  brought  out  an  hundred  knightes 
Wei  armed  for  the  werre  at  all*  rights. 
And  certeynly  ther  trowed  many  a  man 
That  never,  since  the  day  this  world  bigan, 
To  speke  of  knighthod  or  of  high  degree, 
As  fer  as  God  hath  maked  land  or  sea, 
Came,  from  so  fewe,  so  good  a  company. 
For  every  wight  that  loveth  chyvalry, 
And  wold*  seek  to  have  a  noble  name 
Hath  preyed  that  he  might  be  of  that  game; 
Wei  was  to  him,  that  therto  chosen  was. 
For  if  ther  felle  to  morrow  such  a  case, 
I  know*  wel,  that  every  lusty  knight 
That  loveth  his  lady,  and  that  hath  his  might, 
Were  it  in  Eng*lond,  or  ell*swhere, 
They  wold*  longen  douteless  to  be  there. 
To  fights  for  a  lady;  bencite  ! 
It  were  a  lusty  sight*  for  to  see. 
And  right  so  journeyed  they  with  Palamon. 
With  him  ther  went*  knyght*s  many  a  oon  ; 
Some  will  be  armed  in  an  armour  stout, 
In  a  brest-plat  and  in  a  light*  cote; 
And  som  wold  have  a  peyre  of  plates  large ; 
And  som  wold  have  a  Pruc*  shield,  or  targe; 
Som  wil  be  armed  on  their  legg*s  weel, 
And  have  an  ax,  and  eek  a  mace  of  steel. 
Ther  is  no  new*  gyse,  that  is  not  old. 
Armed  were  they,  as  I  have  now  you  told, 
Eche  at  his  pleasure  and  opinioun. 

There  mayst  thou  see  comyng  with  Palamoun 
Ligurge  himself,  the  gret*  kyng  of  Thrace; 
Blak  was  his  berd,  and  manly  was  his  face. 
The  circles  of  his  even  in  his  hed 


LONGER  POEMS  31 

They  gloweden  bytwixe  yellow  and  red, 

And  lik  a  griffoun  loked  he  aboute, 

With  shaggy  heres  on  his  browns  stoute; 

His  lymes  greet,  his  brawnes  hard  and  stronge, 

His  shuldres  brood,  his  armes  rounde  and  longe. 

And  as  the  gyse  was  in  his  contree, 

Ful  heye  upon  a  car  of  gold  stood  he, 

With  foure  white  bulls  in  the  traces. 

In  stede  of  cote  armour  on  his  harness, 

He  had  a  bere  skyn,  cole-blak  and  old, 

With  nailes  yelwe,  and  bright  as  eny  gold. 

His  longe  heer  y-kempt  byhynd  his  bak, 

As  eny  raven  f ether  it  shone  for  blak. 

A  wrethe  of  gold  arm-great,  and  huge  of  weight, 

Upon  his  hed,  set  ful  of  stones  bright, 

Of  fyne  rubies  and  of  dyamaunts. 

Aboute  his  car  ther  wenten  white  hounds, 

Twenty  and  mo,  as  grete  as  eny  steer, 

To  hunten  at  the  lyoun  or  the  bere, 

And  followed  him,  with  muzzle  fast  i-bounde, 

Collared  with  golde,  and  ringes  fyled  rounde. 

An  hundred  lordes  had  he  in  his  route 

Armed  ful  wel,  with  hertes  stern  and  stoute. 

With  Arcite,  as  in  stories  ye  shal  finde, 
The  gret  Emetreus,  the  kyng  of  Ynde, 
Uppon  a  steede  bay,  trapped  in  steel, 
Covered  with  cloth  of  gold  dyapred  wel, 
Cam  rydyng  lyk  the  god  of  armes,  Mars. 
His  cote  armour  was  of  a  cloth  of  Tars, 
Broided  with  perles  whyte,  round  and  grete. 
His  sadil  was  of  burnt  gold  newe  y-bete; 
A  mantelet  upon  his  shuldre  hangyng 
Brim-ful  of  rubies  red,  as  fire  sparklyng. 
His  crispe  hair  all  into  ringes  dight, 
And  that  was  yelwe,  and  gliteryng  as  the  light. 
His  nose  was  high,  his  eyen  bright  and  keen, 
His  lippes  rounde,  his  colour  was  sangwyn, 
A  fewe  frekles  in  his  face  y-sprinkled, 
Betwixe  yelwe  and  blak  somewhat  y-mingled, 
And  as  a  lyoun  he  his  lokyng  caste. 
Of  fyve  and  twenty  yeer  his  age  I  caste. 
His  berd  was  wel  bygonne  for  to  sprynge; 
His  voys  was  as  a  trumpe  thunderynge. 


32          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Upon  his  hed  he  wered  laurel  grene 
A  garlond  fresch  and  lusty  for  to  sene. 
Upon  his  hond  he  bar  for  his  delyt 
An  egle  tame,  as  eny  lylie  whyt. 
An  hundred  lordes  had  he  with  him  ther, 
Al  armed  save  their  hed^s  in  their  gear, 
Ful  richely  in  alle  maner  thinges. 
For  trusts  wel,  that  dukes,  erles,  kynges, 
Were  gadred  in  this  noble  companye, 
For  love,  and  for  encrease  of  chivalrye. 
Aboute  the  kyng  ther  ran  on  every  part 
Ful  many  a  tame  lyoun  and  lepard. 
And  in  this  wise  these  lordes  alle  and  some 
Be  on  the  Sonday  to  the  citee  come 
Aboute  prime,  and  in  the  toun  alight. 
This  Theseus,  this  duk,  this  worthy  knight, 
Whan  he  had  brought  them  into  this  citee, 
And  inned  them,  eche  one  at  his  degree 
He  festeth  them,  and  doth  so  gret  labour 
To  lodge  them,  and  do  them  al  honour, 
That  yit  men  thinketh  that  no  mannas  wyt 
Of  non  estat  coude  aught  amenden  it. 
The  mynstralcye,  the  servyce  at  the  feste, 
The  greto  giftes  to  the  most  and  leste, 
The  riche  aray  of  Theseus  palace, 
And  who  sat  first  and  last  upon  the  dais, 
What  ladies  fayrest  be  or  best  daunsyng, 
Or  which  of  them  can  harpen  best  or  syng, 
And  who  most  felyngly  speketh  of  love; 
What  haukes  sitten  on  the  perche  above, 
What  houndes  lyen  in  the  floor  adoun, 
Of  al  this  make  I  now  no  mencioun; 
But  of  theffect ;  that  thinketh  me  the  beste ; 
Now  comth  the  poynt,  and  herken  if  you  leste. 
The  Sonday  night,  ere  day  bigan  to  springe, 
When  Palamon  the  larke  herde  synge, 
Although  it  were  nought  day  by  houres  tuo, 
Yit  sang  the  larke,  and  Palamon  also 
With  holy  herte,  and  with  an  high  corage 
He  rose,  to  wenden  on  his  pilgrymage 
Unto  the  blisful  Cithera  benigne, 
I  mentf  Venus,  honorable  and  digne. 
And  in  her  hour  he  walketh  forth  a  pace 


LONGER  POEMS  33 

Unto  the  lystos,  where  hir  temple  was, 
And  doim  he  kneleth,  and,  with  humble  cheer 
And  herte  sore,  he  seide  as  ye  shal  heer. 
"  Fairest  of  faire,  o  lady  myn  Venus, 
Doughter  of  Jove,  and  spouse  to  Vulcanus, 
Thou  gladder  of  the  mount  of  Citheroun, 
For  that  great  love  thou  haddest  to  Adon 
Have  pitee  on  my  bitter  teeres  smerte, 
And  tak  myn  humble  prayer  to  thin  herte. 
Alias !  I  have  no  langage  for  to  telle 
ThefTecte  or  the  torments  of  myn  helle; 
Myn  herte  may  myn  harmes  not  betray; 
I  am  so  confus,  that  I  may  not  seye. 
But  mercy,  lady  bright,  that  knowest  wel 
My  thought,  and  felest  what  harm  that  I  feel, 
Consider  al  this,  have  ruth  upon  my  sore, 
And  wisely  shal  I  now  for  evermore 
With  all  my  might  thi  trewe  servant  be, 
And  hold*?  werre  alway  with  chastitee; 
That  make  I  myn  avow,  so  ye  me  helpe. 
I  care  not  of  arm^s  for  to  yelpe, 
Nor  do  I  aske  to-morn  to  have  victorie, 
Or  renoun  in  this  case,  or  veyne  glorie 
Of  pris  of  arm^s,  blowyng  up  and  doun, 
But  I  wolde  have  the  ful  possessioun 
Of  Emelye,  and  dye  in  thi  servise ; 
Fynd  thou  the  maner  how,  and  in  what  wyse. 
I  reecho  nat,  it  it  may  better  be, 
To  have  victorie  of  him,  or  he  of  me, 
So  that  I  have  my  lady  in  myn  arm^s. 
For  though  so  be  that  Mars  be  god  of  armes, 
And  ye  be  Venus,  the  goddess  of  love, 
Youre  vertu  is  so  gret  in  heven  above, 
Thy  temple  wil  I  worshipe  evermo, 
And  on  thin  altar,  whether  I  ryde  or  go, 
I  wil  do  sacrifice,  and  fyres  light. 
And  if  ye  wil  nat  so,  my  lady  bright, 
Then  pray  I  thee  tomorrow  with  a  darte 
That  fiers  Arcite  may  pierce  me  to  the  herte. 
Thenne  rekke  I  not,  when  I  have  lost  my  lyf, 
Though  that  Arcita  have  hir  to  his  wyf. 
This  is  theffect  and  ende  of  my  prayere; 
Gif  me  my  love,  thou  blisful  lady  deere." 


34         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Whan  the  orisoun  was  don  of  Palamon, 

His  sacrifice  he  dede,  and  that  anon 

Ful  piteously,  with  alle  circumstances,, 

Though  telle  I  nat  as  now  his  observances. 

But  at  the  last  the  statu  of  Venus  shook, 

And  made  a  signe,  wherby  that  he  took 

That  his  prayer  accepted  was  that  day. 

For  though  the  signe  shewed  a  delay, 

Yet  wist  he  wel  that  graunted  was  his  boone ; 

And  with  glad  herte  he  went  him  horn  ful  soone. 

The  third  hour  inequal  that  Palamon 
Bigan  to  Venus  temple  for  to  goon, 
Up  rose  the  sonne,  and  up  rose  Emelye, 
And  to  the  temple  of  Dian  gan  she  hye. 
Hir  maydens,  that  she  with  hir  thider  ladde, 
Ful  redily  with  them  the  fyr  they  hadde, 
The  incense,  the  clothes,  and  the  remnant  al 
That  to  the  sacrifice  longen  shal; 
The  homes  ful  of  mead,  as  is  the  gyse ; 
Ther  lakketh  nought  to  do  their  sacrifise. 
Smokyng  the  temple,  ful  of  clothes  faire. 
This  Emelye  with  herte  debonaire 
Hir  body  wessh  with  watir  of  a  welle; 
But  how  she  dide  her  rite  I  dare  nat  telle, 
Save  it  be  eny  thing  in  general; 
And  yet  it  were  a  game  to  here  it  al; 
To  him  that  meneth  wel  it  were  no  wrong: 
But  it  is  good  a  man  sholde  kepe  his  tong. 
Hir  brighte  hair  was  kempt,  untressed  al; 
A  corone  of  a  grene  oak  cerial 
Upon  hir  heed  was  set  ful  fair  and  bright. 
Tuo  fyres  on  the  alter  gan  she  light, 
And  did  al  thinges,  as  men  may  biholde 
In  Stace  of  Thebes  and  the  bokes  olde. 
Whan  kyndled  was  the  fyr,  with  piteous  cheere 
Unto  Dyan  she  spak,  as  ye  may  heere. 

"  O  chaste  goddes  of  the  woodes  greene, 
By  whom  bothe  heven  and  erthe  and  see  is  seene, 
Queen  of  the  regne  of  Pluto  derk  and  lowe, 
Goddes  of  maydenes,  that  myn  hert  has  knowe 
Ful  many  a  yeer,  ye  wot  what  I  desire, 
So  keep  me  fro  the  vengeance  and  the  ire, 
That  Atheon  did  suffer  trewely: 


LONGER  POEMS  35 

0  chaste  goddesse,  wel  knowest  thou  that  I 
Desire  to  be  a  mayden  al  my  lyf, 

Nor  never  wil  I  be  no  love  nor  wyf . 

1  am  yit,  thou  knowest,  of  thi  company, 
A  mayden,  and  love  huntyng  and  venery, 
And  for  to  walken  in  the  wood^s  wylde, 
And  nought  to  be  a  wyf,  and  be  with  chylde. 
Nought  wil  I  knowe  the  company  of  man. 
Now  helpe  me,  lady,  since  ye  may  and  kan, 
For  the  three  formes  that  thou  hast  in  the. 
And  Palamon,  that  hath  such  love  to  me, 
And  eek  Arcite,  that  loveth  me  so  sore, 
This  grace  I  pray^  thee  withouten  more, 
And  sende  love  and  pees  betwix  them  two; 
And  fro  me  torne  awey  their  hertes  so, 
That  al  their  hote  love,  and  their  desire, 
And  al  their  torment,  and  their  busy  fyre 
Be  quensht,  or  turned  in  another  place. 
And  if  so  be  thou  wolt  do  me  no  grace, 

Or  if  my  destynee  be  shapid  so, 

That  I  shal  needes  have  one  of  them  two, 

So  send  me  him  that  most  desireth  me. 

Biholdtf,  goddes  of  clene  chastitee, 

The  bitter  teeres  that  on  my  cheek^s  falle. 

Since  thou  art  mayde,  and  keper  of  us  alle, 

My  maydenhode  thou  keep  and  wel  conserve, 

And  whil  I  lyve  a  mayde  I  wil  thee  serve." 

The  lyres  burn  upon  the  alter  cleer, 
Whil  Emelye  was  thus  in  hir  preyer; 
But  sodeinly  she  saw  a  sights  queynt, 
For  right  anon  one  of  the  fyres  did  faint, 
And  glowed  agayn,  and  after  that  anon 
That  other  fyr  was  quensht,  and  al  agon; 
And  as  it  quensht,  it  made  a  whistelyng, 
As  doth  a  wete  brand  in  his  burning. 
And  at  the  brands  end  out  ran  anon 
As  it  were  bloody  dropes  many  a  one ; 
For  which  so  sore  agast  was  Emelye, 
That  she  wel  nigh  mad  was,  and  gan  to  crie, 
For  she  ne  wiste  what  it  signifyed ; 
But  all  alone  for  feere  thus  she  cryed, 
And  wepte,  that  it  was  pitee  to  heere. 
And  therewithal  Dyan0  gan  appeere. 


36         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

With  bow  in  bond,  right  as  a  hunteresse, 
And  seyd  "  A !  doughter,  stynt  thyn  hevynesse. 
Among  the  godd*s  hye  it  is  affermed, 
And  by  etern*  word  writ  and  confermed, 
Thou  shalt  be  wedded  unto  one  of  those, 
That  have  for  thee  so  many  cares  and  woes; 
But  unto  which  of  them  may  I  nat  telle. 
Farwel,  for  I  may  here  no  lenger  dwelle. 
The  fyr*s  which  that  on  myn  alter  burn 
Shal  thee  declare,  ere  that  thou  homward  turn, 
Thyn  .a venture  of  love,  and  in  this  place." 
And  with  that  word,  the  arrows  in  the  case 
Of  the  goddess*  clatren  faste  and  rynge, 
And  forth  she  went,  and  made  a  vanysshynge, 
For  which  this  Emelye  astoneyd  was, 
And  seid*,  "  What  amounteth  this,  alias! 
I  put  me  under  thy  proteccioun, 
Dyane,  and  in  thi  disposicioun." 
And  horn  she  goth  anon  the  next*  way. 
This  is  theffect,  ther  is  no  more  to  say. 

The  home  nexte  of  Mars  that  folowed  this, 
Arcite  unto  the  temple  walkyd  is, 
To  fyry  Mars  to  do  his  sacrifise, 
With  al  the  right*s  of  his  pagan  wise. 
With  piteous  herte  and  hy  devocioun, 
Right  thus  to  Mars  he  sayd  his  orisoun : 
"  O  strong*  god,  that  in  the  countree  colde 
Of  Trace  honoured  and  lord  art  thou  y-hold, 
And  hast  in  every  realm  and  every  land 
Of  arm*s  al  the  bridel  in  thy  hand, 
And  guidest  al  as  thou  dost  wel  devyse, 
Accept  of  me  my  piteous  sacrifise. 
If  so  be  that  my  youth*  may  deserve, 
And  that  my  might  be  worthi  for  to  serve 
Thy  godhed,  that  I  may  be  one  of  thine, 
Then  pray  I  thee  have  pity  on  my  pyne, 
For  that  same  peyne,  and  that  for  hot*  fyr, 
In  which  whilom  thou  burnedst  for  desyre, 
Whan  that  thou  didst  obtaine  the  gret  beautee 
Of  faire  Venus,  that  is  so  fressh  and  free, 
And  haddest  hir  in  arm*s  at  thy  wille; 
Though  on  a  tym*  mischeef  thee  bifel, 
When  Vulcan  caught  thee  in  his  nett*  wide, 


LONGER  POEMS  37 

And  fand  thee  liggyng  by  his  wyfes  side 

For  that  same  sorwe  that  was  in  thin  herte, 

Have  pity  too  upon  my  peyn^s  smerte. 

I  am  yong  and  unkonnyng,  as  thou  knowst, 

And,  as  I  trowe,  with  love  offendid  most, 

That  ever  was  eny  lyve  creature; 

For  she,  that  doth  me  al  this  wo  endure, 

Ne  rekketh  never  whether  I  synke  or  live. 

And  wel  I  wot,  ere  she  me  mercy  give, 

I  must  with  strengths  wyn  hir  in  the  place; 

And  wel  I  wot,  withouten  help  or  grace 

Of  thee,  my  strengthe  may  nought  a  whit  avayle. 

Then  help  me,  lord,  tomorrow  in  my  batayle, 

For  that  same  fyr  that  whilom  burned  the, 

Right  so  this  iyre  now  it  burneth  me; 

Make  now  tomorrow  I  have  the  victorie. 

Myn  be  the  travail,  al  thin  be  the  glorie. 

Thy  soverein  tempul  wol  I  most  honouren 

Of  any  place,  and  alway  most  labouren 

In  thy  pleasure  and  in  the  craftes  stronge. 

And  in  thy  tempul  I  wil  my  baner  hong, 

And  alle  the  armes  of  my  companye, 

And  ever  more,  unto  that  day  I  dye, 

Sterna  fyr  I  wol  bifore  thee  fynde. 

And  eek  to  this  avow  I  wil  me  bynde: 

My  beard,  myn  heer  that  hangeth  longe  adoun, 

That  never  yit  has  felt  offensioun 

Of  rasour  or  of  shere,  I  wil  thee  give, 

And  be  thy  trew*  servaunt  whiles  I  lyve. 

Lord,  have  thou  pity  uppon  my  sorrows  sore, 

Gif  me  the  victorie,  I  aske  no  more." 

The  preyer  ended  of  Arcite  the  strang, 
The  ryngtfs  on  the  tempul  dore  that  hang, 
And  eek  the  dores,  clatereden  ful  fast, 
Of  which  Arcita  somwhat  was  agast. 
The  fir<?s  brenden  on  the  alter  bright, 
That  it  gan  al  the  tempul  for  to  light; 
A  swet<?  smel  anon  the  ground  did  give, 
Anon  his  hond  Arcita  did  upheave, 
And  more  encens  into  the  fyr  yet  cast, 
With  othir  rites,  and  than  atte  last 
The  statu  of  Mars  bigan  his  hauberk  rynge, 
And  with  that  soun  he  herd  a  murmurynge 


38         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Ful  lowe  and  dym,  and  sayde  thus,  "  Victorie." 

For  which  he  gaf  to  Mars  honour  and  glorie. 

And  thus  with  joye,  and  hope  wel  to  win, 

Arcite  anon  is  gon  unto  his  inne, 

As  fayn  as  bird  is  of  the  bright^  sonne. 

And  right  anon  such  stryf  there  is  bygonne 

For  that  same  grauntyng,  in  the  heven  above, 

Bitwixe  Venus  the  goddes  of  love, 

And  Mars  the  sterna  god  armypotent, 

That  Jupiter  was  busy  it  to  stent; 

Til  that  the  pate  Saturnus  the  colde, 

That  knew  so  many  a  ventures  olde, 

Found  in  his  old  experiens  an  art, 

That  he  ful  sone  hath  plesyd  every  part. 

As  soth  is  sayd,  eld  hath  gret  a  vantage, 

In  eld  is  both*?  wisdom  and  usage; 

Men  may  out-runne  but  not  out-counselle  age. 

Saturne  anon,  to  stynte  stryf  and  rage, 

Although  to  do  thys  be  agaynst  his  mind, 

Of  al  this  stryf  he  can  a  remedy  fynde. 

"  My  deere  doughter  Venus,"  quoth  Saturne, 

"  My  cours,  that  hath  so  wyde  for  to  turne, 

Hath  more  power  than  wot  eny  man. 

Myn  is  the  drowning  in  the  see  so  wan; 

Myn  is  the  prisoun  in  the  derke  ward ; 

Myn  is  the  stranglyng  and  hangyng  by  the  cord ; 

The  murmur,  and  the  cherles  rebellyng; 

The  gronyng,  and  the  privy  enpoysonyng, 

I  make  vengance  and  ful  correctioun, 

Whiles  d welly ng  in  the  signe  of  the  lyoun. 

Myn  is  the  ruin  of  the  hye  halles, 

The  fallyng  of  the  toures  and  the  walles 

Upon  the  mynour  or  the  carpenter. 

I  slew  Samson  in  shakyng  the  piler: 

And  myne  be  the  maladies  colde, 

The  derke  tresoun,  and  the  plottos  olde; 

Myn  eye  is  the  fadir  of  pestilens. 

Now  wepe  nomore,  I  shal  do  my  diligence, 

That  Palamon,  that  is  myn  own  servaunt, 

Shal  have  his  lady,  as  thou  didst  him  graunt. 

Though  Mars  shal  kepe  his  knight,  yet  nevertheles 

Bitwixe  you  ther  must  som  tyme  be  pees; 

Al  be  ye  nought  of  one  complexioun, 


LONGER  POEMS  39 

That  every  day  causeth  divisioun. 

I  am  thi  fadirs  fadir,  at  thy  wille; 

Wepe  thou  nomore,  I  wil  thi  lust  fulfille." 

Now  wil  I  stinten  of  the  goddes  above, 

Of  Mars,  and  of  Venus  goddess  of  love, 

And  telle  you,  as  pleinly  as  I  can, 

The  grete  eifecte  for  which  that  I  bigan. 

Gret  was  the  fest  in  Athenes  on  that  day, 
And  eek  the  lusty  sesoun  of  that  May 
Made  every  wight  to  be  in  such  plesaunce 
That  al  the  Monday  jousten  they  and  daunce, 
And  spenden  it  in  Venus  high  servise. 
But  by  the  cause  that  they  shal  arise 
Erly  amorrow  for  to  see  that  fight, 
Unto  their  reste  wente  they  at  nyght, 
And  on  the  morrow  whan  the  day  gan  spryng, 
Of  hors  and  harness  noyse  and  clateryng 
Ther  was  in  al  the  hostelry es  aboute; 
And  to  the  paleys  rode  ther  many  a  route 
Of  lordes,  upon  steedes  and  palfreys. 
Ther  mayst  thou  see  devysing  of  harness 
So  uncouth  and  so  riche  wrought  and  wel 
Of  goldsmithry,  of  broidery,  and  steel; 
The  sheldes  bright,  the  helmets,  and  trappings ; 
Gold-beten  helmes,  hauberks,  and  cote  armings ; 
Lordes  in  clothes  riche  on  their  coursers, 
Knightes  of  retenu,  and  eek  squyers 
Nailing  the  speres,  and  helmes  buckelyng, 
Girdyng  of  sheeldes,  with  the  thongs  lacyng; 
Where  the  need  was,  there  they  were  nothing  ydel ; 
Ther  fomen  steedes,  on  the  golden  bridel 
Gnawyng,  and  faste  the  armurers  also 
With  f yle  and  hamer  prikyng  to  and  fro ; 
Yeomen  on  foot,  and  knaves  many  a  one 
With  shorte  staves,  as  thikke  as  they  may  goon; 
Pypes,  and  trompes,  drums,  and  clariounes, 
That  in  the  batail  blewe  bloody  sownes; 
The  paleys  ful  of  pepul  up  and  doun, 
Heer  three,  ther  ten.  holdyng  their  questioun, 
Dyvynyng  of  these  Thebans  knightes  two. 
Som  seyden  thus,  some  seyd  it  shal  be  so; 
Som  held  with  him  that  hath  the  blake  berd, 
Som  with  the  bald,  some  with  the  thikke  haired; 


40         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Som  sayd  he  loked  grym  and  wolde  fight ; 
He  hath  an  ax  of  twenti  pound  of  wight. 
Thus  was  the  hall*  ful  of  devynyng, 
Long  after  that  the  sonne  gan  to  springe. 
The  gret  Theseus  that  of  his  sleep  is  waked 
With  menstralcy  and  noyse  that  was  maked, 
Kept  yit  the  chambre  of  his  paleys  rare, 
Til  that  the  Thebanes  knyghtes  bothe  were 
Honoured,  and  into  the  paleys  go. 
Duk  Theseus  was  set  at  a  wyndow, 
Arayed  right  as  he  were  god  on  throne. 
The  pepul  preseth  thider-ward  ful  sone 
Him  for  to  see,  and  do  him  reverence. 
And  eek  herken  his  hest  and  his  sentence. 
An  herauld  on  a  skaffold  made  a  hoo, 
Til  al  the  noyse  of  the  pepul  was  i-do ; 
And  whan  he  saw  the  pepul  of  noyse  al  stille, 
Thus  shewed  he  the  mighty  dukes  wille. 

"  The  lord  hath  of  his  hy  discrecioun 
Considered,  that  it  were  destruccioun 
To  gentil  blood,  to  fighten  in  this  wise 
In  mortal  batail  in  this  enterprise; 
Wherfor  to  shapen  that  they  shuld  not  dye, 
He  wil  his  firsts  purpos  modifye. 
No  man  therfore,  on  peyne  of  los  of  lyf, 
No  maner  shot,  nor  pollax,  nor  schort  knyf 
Into  the  lystes  sende,  or  thider  brynge; 
Nor  schorte  swerd  to  stick  with  poynt  bytyng 
No  man  shal  drawe,  or  bere  by  his  side. 
And  noman  shal  agayns  his  felawe  ryde 
But  one  cours ,  with  a  sharpe  y-grounden  spere ; 
If  eny  fall  he  shal  on  foote  fight  there. 
And  he  that  is  the  loser,  shal  be  take, 
And  not  slayn,  but  be  brought  unto  the  stake. 
That  shal  be  fixed  hy  on  eyther  syde; 
But  thider  he  shal  by  force,  and  ther  abyde. 
And  if  so  falle,  a  chieftayn  shulde  go 
Unto  the  stake,  or  elks  slay  his  fo, 
No  lenger  shal  the  fight  betwixe  them  laste. 
God  sped*  you ;  go  forth  and  ley  on  faste. 
With  long  swerd  and  with  mace  fight  your  fille. 
Go  now  your  way;  this  is  the  lordes  wille." 

The  voices  of  the  pepul  touch  the  sky, 


LONGER  POEMS  41 

So  lowd<?  cried  thei  with  jollitee: 

"  God  saw  such  a  lord  that  is  so  good, 

He  willeth  no  destruccioun  of  blood!  " 

Up  go  the  trompes  and  the  melodye. 

And  to  the  lystos  ryde  the  companye 

By  ordynaunce,  throughout  the  citee  large, 

Hangyng  with  cloth  of  gold,  and  not  with  serge. 

Ful  lik  a  lord  this  nobul  duk  can  ryde, 

And  these  two  Theban  knightes  on  eyther  side; 

And  after  rode  the  queen>  and  Emelye, 

And  after,  of  ladyes  another  companye, 

And  after.,  comunes  al  in  there  degree. 

And  thus  they  passeden  thurgh  that  citee, 

And  to  the  lystes  come  thei  by  tyme. 

It  was  not  of  the  day  yet  fully  pryme, 

When  sette  was  duk  Theseus  riche  and  hye, 

Hippolyta  the  queen  and  Emelye, 

And  other  ladyes  in  there  degrees  aboute. 

Unto  the  seates  presseth  al  the  route; 

And  westeward,  thorugh  the  gates  of  Mart, 

Arcite,  and  eek  the  hundred  of  his  part, 

With  baners  red  ys  entred  right  anon ; 

And  at  that  sam^  moment  Palamon 

Is,  under  Venus,  est-ward  in  that  place, 

With  baner  whyt,  and  hardy  cheer  and  face. 

In  al  the  world,  to  seeken  up  and  doun, 
So  even  without^  doute  or  question 
Ther  never  were  suche  companyes  tweye. 
For  ther  was  non  so  wys  that  coude  seye, 
That  any  had  of  the  other  a  vantage 
In  worthines,  or  state  or  in  visage. 
So  evene  were  they  chosen  for  to  gesse. 
And  in  two  rankcs  faire  they  them  dresse. 
And  when  there  names  i-rad  were  everyone, 
That  in  there  nombre  guile  was  ther  non, 
Then  were  the  gates  shut,  and  cried  lowde : 
"  Do  now  your  devoir,  yong£  knightes  proude !  " 
The  heralds  laft  there  prikyng  up  and  doun ; 
Now  ryngede  out  the  tromp  and  clarioun ; 
Ther  is  nomore  to  sa*y,  but  est  and  west 
In  go  the  sperms  ful  surely  in  the  rest; 
In  goth  the  sharps  spur  into  the  side. 
Ther  see  men  who  can  juste,  and  who  can  ryde; 


42         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Ther  shiver  shaftes  upon  shuldres  thyk; 

He  feeleth  thurgh  the  navel  the  sharp*  prik. 

Up  sprengen  sperms  twenty  foot  on  hight ; 

Out  go  the  swerdes  as  the  silver  bright. 

The  helmes  they  to-hewen  and  to-shred; 

Out  brast  the  blood,,  with  runnyng  strem^s  red, 

With  mighty  maces  the  bones  thay  to-burst. 

He  thurgh  the  thikkest  of  the  throng  gan  thrust, 

Ther  stomble  steedes  strong,  and  doun  gan  falle, 

He  rolleth  under  foot  as  doth  a  balle. 

He  fighteth  on  his  foot  with  a  tronchoun, 

And  hurleth  the  other  with  his  hors  adoun. 

He  thurgh  the  body  hurt  is,  and  is  take 

Will  he  or  no,  and  brought  unto  the  stake, 

As  covenant  was,  right  where  he  must  abyde. 

Another  lad  is  on  that  other  syde. 

And  Theseus  doth  make  them  al  to  reste, 

Them  to  refressche,  and  drinke  it  so  them  list. 

Ful  oft  a-day  these  knights,  these  Thebans  two 

Togider  met,  and  wrought  his  felaw  wo; 

Unhorsed  hath  ech  other  of  them  tweye. 

Ther  was  no  tygyr  in  the  vale  of  Galgopheye, 

Whan  that  her  whelp  is  stole,  whan  it  is  lite. 

So  cruel  on  the  hunt,  as  is  Arcite 

For  jelous  hert  upon  this  Palamon: 

Nor  in  Belmary  ther  is  no  fell  lion, 

That  hunted  is,  or  is  for  hunger  wood, 

Nor  of  his  prey  desireth  so  the  blood, 

As  Palamon  to  slay  his  fo  Arcite. 

The  jelous  strokes  on  their  helmes  byte; 

Out  renneth  blood  on  bo  the  their  sides  red. 

Som  tyme  an  ende  ther  is  of  every  deed ; 

For  ere  the  sonne  unto  his  reste  went, 

The  strange  king  Emetreus  gan  hent 

This  Palamon,  as  he  faught  with  Arcite, 

And  deep  into  his  flessh  his  swerd  did  byte; 

And  by  the  force  of  twenti  he  is  take 

Unyielded,  and  y-drawn  unto  the  stake. 

And  in  the  rescue  of  this  Palamoun 

The  strong*  kyng  Ligurg  is*  born  adoun ; 

And  kyng  Emetreus  for  al  his  strengthe 

Is  borne  out  of  his  sadel  his  swerd*s  lengthe, 

So  hit  him  Palamon  ere  he  were  take; 


LONGER  POEMS  43 

But  al  for  nought,  he  brought  was  to  the  stake. 

His  hardy  herte  might  him  helpe  nought; 

He  most  abyde  when  that  he  was  caught, 

By  force,  and  eek  by  composicioun. 

Who  sorroweth  now  but  woeful  Palamoun, 

That  may  nomon?  go  agayn  to  fight  ? 

And  when  that  Theseus  had  seen  that  sight, 

He  cryed,  "  Ho!  nomore,  for  it  is  don! 

And  non  shal  longer  unto  his  felaw  goon. 

I  wol  be  trew£  judge,  and  no  party e. 

Arcyte  of  Thebes  shal  have  Emelye, 

That  hath  her  by  his  fortune  now  i-wonne." 

Anon  ther  is  a  noyse  of  people  begun 

For  joye  of  this,  so  loude  and  heye  withalle, 

It  semed  that  the  very  listes  wolde  falle. 

What  can  now  fayre  Venus  do  above  ? 

What  seith  she  now?  what  doth  this  queen  of  love? 

But  wepeth  so,  for  wantyng  of  her  wille, 

Til  that  her  teer^s  in  the  lystes  fill; 

She  seyde:   "  I  am  ashamed  douteless." 

Saturnus  seyd:   "  O  daughter,  hold  thy  peace. 

Mars  hath  his  wille,  his  knight  hath  all  his  boon, 

And  by  myn  heed  thou  shalt  be  es£d  soone." 

The  tromp<?s  with  the  lowde  mynstralcy, 

The  heraldes,  that  ful  lowde  yelle  and  cry, 

Been  merry  in  there  joye  for  Dan  Arcyte. 

But  herk  to  me,  and  stay  but  yet  a  lite, 

For  there  bifel  a  miracle  anon. 

This  Arcyte  fiercely  hath  put  his  helm  adoun, 

And  on  his  courser  for  to  shewe  his  face, 

He  prik£d  up  and  down  the  large  place, 

Lokyng  upward  upon  his  Emelye; 

And  she  agayn  him  cast  a  frendly  eye, 

(For  wommen,  for  to  speke  as  in  comune, 

Thay  follow  alle  the  favour  of  fortune) 

And  was  alle  his  in  cheer,  and  in  his  herte. 

Out  of  the  ground  a  fyr  infernal  stert, 

From  Pluto  sent,  at  request  of  Saturne, 

For  which  his  hors  for  feere  gan  to  turne, 

And  leep  asyde,  and  foundred  as  he  leep; 

And  ere  that  Arcyte  may  of  this  take  keep, 

He  pight  him  on  the  pomel  of  his  hed, 

That  in  that  place  he  lay  as  he  were  ded, 


44         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

His  brest  to-broken,  with  his  sadil  bowe. 

As  blak  he  lay  as  eny  coal  or  crowe, 

So  was  the  blood  y-ronnen  in  his  face. 

Anon  he  was  y-born  out  of  the  place 

With  herttf  sore,  to  Theseus  paleys. 

Then  was  he  carven  out  of  his  harneys, 

And  in  a  bed  ful  fair  and  soft  y-brought, 

For  yit  he  was  in  memory  and  thought, 

And  alway  crying  after  Emelye. 

Duk  Theseus,  and  al  his  companye, 

Is  comen  horn  to  Athenes  his  citee, 

With  alle  bliss  and  gret  solemnitee. 

Al  be  it  that  this  aventure  was  falle, 

He  wolde  nought  discomforten  them  alle. 

Men  seyd  eek,  that  Arcita  schuld  nought  dye, 

He  shal  be  heled  of  his  malady e. 

And  of  another  thing  they  were  as  fayn, 

That  of  them  alle  ther  was  non  y-slayn, 

Al  were  they  sore  hurt,  and  namely  one, 

That  with  a  spere  was  pierced  his  brest  bone. 

To  other  woundes,  and  to-broken  armes, 

Some  hadden  salves,  and  some  hadden  charmes, 

Drugg^s  of  herb^s  and  sage  the  doctours  gave 

To  drinken,  for  they  wolde  their  lyv^s  save. 

And  eek  this  noble  duk,  as  he  wel  can, 

Comforteth  and  honoureth  every  man, 

And  madtf  revel  al  the  longe  night, 

Unto  the  straunge  lordes,  as  it  was  right. 

Nor  ther  was  holden  no  discomfytyng, 

But  as  at  justes  or  at  a  tourneyinge; 

For  sothly  ther  was  no  discomfiture, 

For  fallynge  doun  is  but  an  aventure. 

And  to  be  led  with  fors  unto  the  stake 

Unyielden,  and  with  twenty  knightes  take, 

A  person  allone,  withouten  helpers  moo, 

And  dragged  forth  by  arrn^,  foot,  and  toe, 

And  eke  his  steeds  dryven  forth  with  staves, 

With  footemen,  bothe  yeomen  and  eke  knaves, 

It  was  not  counted  him  no  vilonye, 

Nor  any  man  held  it  for  cowardye. 

For  which  duk  Theseus  loud  anon  let  crie, 
To  stynten  al  rancour  and  al  envye, 
The  prize  was  wel  on  one  syde  as  on  other. 


LONGER  POEMS  45 

And  every  side  lik,  as  others  brother; 

And  gaf  them  giftes  after  there  degree  > 

And  fully  held  a  feste  dayes  three; 

And  convoyed  the  knightes  worthily 

Out  of  his  toun  a  journee  largely. 

And  horn  went  every  man  the  rights  way. 

Ther  was  no  more,  but  "  Farwel,  have  good  day!  " 

Of  this  batayl  I  wol  no  more  endite, 

But  speke  of  Palamon  and  of  Arcyte. 

Swelleth  the  brest  of  Arcyte,  and  the  sore 
Encreaseth  at  his  herte  more  and  more. 
The  clothred  blood,  for  all  the  leche-craft, 
Corrumpith,  and  is  in  his  body  left, 
That  neither  veyne  blood,  ne  any  cutting, 
Ne  drynk  of  herbes  may  be  his  helpyng. 
The  vertu  expulsif,  or  animal, 
From  thilke  vertu  cleped  natural, 
May  not  the  venym  voyde,  nor  expelle. 
The  pypes  of  his  lunges  gah  to  swelle, 
And  every  muscle  in  his  brest  adoun 
Is  filled  with  venym  and  corrupcioun. 
There  holp  him  neither,  for  to  get  his  lyf, 
Vomyt  up- ward,  ne  doun-ward  laxatif ; 
Al  is  to-broken  thilke  regioun ; 
Nature  hath  now  no  dominacioun. 
And  certeynly  where  nature  wil  not  wirche, 
Farwel  phisik;  go  bere  the  man  to  chirche. 
This  is  the  end,  that  Arcyte  moste  dye. 
For  which  he  sendeth  after  Emelye, 
And  Palamon.  that  was  his  cosyn  deere. 
Than  seyd  he  thus,  as  ye  shal  after  heere. 

"  Naught  may  the  woful  spirit  in  myn  herte 
Declare  a  poynt  of  all  my  sorrows  smerte 
To  you,  my  lady,  that  I  love  most; 
But  I  byquethe  the  service  of  my  ghost 
To  you  aboven  every  creature, 
Since  that  my  lyf  may  now  no  longer  dure. 
Alias,  the  wo !  alias,  the  peynes  stronge, 
That  I  for  you  have  sufTred,  and  so  longe ! 
Alias,  the  deth !  alas,  myn  Emelye ! 
Alias,  departyng  of  our  companye ! 
Alias,  myn  herte  queen !  alias,  my  wyf ! 
Myn  hertes  lady,  ender  of  my  lyf ! 
What  is  this  world  ?  what  asken  men  to  have  ? 


46         THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Now  with  his  love,  now  in  his  colde  grave 

Allone  withouten  eny  companye. 

Farwel,  my  swete !  farwel,  myn  Emelye ! 

And  softe  take  me  in  your  armes  tweye, 

For  love  of  God,  and  herk  to  what  I  seye. 

I  have  heer  with  my  cosyn  Palamon 

Had  stryf  and  rancour  many  a  day  i-gon, 

For  love  of  you,  and  eek  for  jelousie. 

And  Jupiter  have  on  my  soul  pitye, 

To  speken  of  a  lover  proprely, 

With  alk  circumstances  trewdy, 

That  is  to  seyn,  truthe,  honour,  and  knighthede, 

Wysdom,  humblesse,  estate,  and  high  kindrede, 

Fredom,  and  al  that  longeth  to  that  art, 

So  Jupiter  have  of  my  souk  part, 

As  in  this  world  right  now  I  knowe  non 

So  worthy  to  be  loved  as  Palamon, 

That  serveth  you,  and  wil  do  al  his  lyf . 

And  if  that  ye  shal  ever  be  a  wyf, 

Forget  not  Palamon,  that  gentil  man." 

And  with  that  word  his  speche  faik  gan; 

For  from  his  herte  up  to  his  brest  was  come 

The  cold  of  deth,  that  him  had  overcome. 

And  yet  moreover  in  his  armes  two 

The  vital  strength  is  lost,  and  al  i-go. 

At  last  the  intellect,  withouten  more, 

That  dwelled  in  his  herte  sik  and  sore, 

Gan  fayle,  when  the  herte  felte  death, 

Dusked  his  eyen  two,  and  fayled  his  breth. 

But  on  his  lady  yit  he  cast  his  eye; 

His  laste  word  was,  "  Mercy,  Emelye !  " 

His  spiryt  chaunged  was,  and  wente  there, 

As  I  cam  never,  I  can  not  tellen  where. 

Therefore  I  stynte,  I  am  no  dyvynistre; 

Of  souks  fynde  I  not  in  this  registre, 

Nor  list  I  those  opynyouns  to  telle 

Of  them,  though  that  they  knowen  where  they/lwelle. 

Arcyte  is  cold,  let  Mars  his  souk  take; 

Now  will  I  of  the  storie  further  speke. 

Shrieked  Emely,  and  howled  Palamon, 
And  Theseus  his  sistir  took  anon 
Swoonyng,  and  bare  hir  fro  the  corps  away. 
What  helpeth  it  to  tarye  forth  the  day, 


LONGER  POEMS  47 

To  tellen  how  she  weep  bothe  eve  and  morrow? 

For  in  such  case  wommen  can  have  such  sorrow, 

When  that  there  housbonds  be  from  them  ago, 

That  for  the  more  part  they  sorrow  so, 

Or  elks  fallen  in  such  maladye, 

That  atte  laste  certeynly  they  dye. 

Infynyt  been  the  sorrows  and  the  teeres 

Of  ohte  folk,  and  folk  of  tendre  yeeres ; 

So  gret  a  wepyng  was  ther  none  certayn, 

Whan  Ector  was  i-brought,  al  fressh  i-slayn, 

As  that  ther  was  for  deth  of  this  Theban ; 

For  sorrow  of  him  weepeth  child  and  man 

At  Thebes,  alias !  the  pitee  that  was  there, 

Scratching  of  cheekes,  rending  eek  of  hair. 

"  Why  woldist  thou  be  ded,"  the  wommen  crye, 

"  And  haddest  gold  enow — and  Ernelye?  " 

No  man  mighte  gladd  the  herte  of  Theseus, 

Savyng  his  olde  fader  Egeus, 

That  knew  this  worlds  transmutacioun, 

As  he  hadde  seen  it  tornen  up  and  doun, 

Joye  after  woe,  and  woe  af tir  gladnesse : 

And  shewed  him  ensample  and  likenesse. 

"  Right  as  ther  deyde  never  man,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  lived  not  in  erthe  in  som  degree. 
So  yet  there  lyvede  never  man,"  he  seyde, 
"  In  all  this  world,  that  som  tyme  was  not  deyde. 
This  world  is  but  a  thurghfare  ful  of  woe, 
And  we  be  pilgryms,  passyng  to  and  fro ; 
Deth  is  an  ende  of  every  worldly  sore." 
And  over  al  this  yet  seide  he  moche  more 
To  this  effect,  ful  wysly  to  exhorte 
The  peple,  that  they  shulde  him  recomforte. 

Duk  Theseus,  with  al  his  busy  care, 
Cast  now  about  where  that  the  sepulture 
Of  good  Arcyte  may  best  y-maked  be. 
And  eek  most  honourable  in  his  degre. 
And  atte  last  he  took  conclusioun, 
That  where  at  first  Arcite  and  Palamon 
Hadden  for  love  the  batail  them  bytwene, 
That  in  the  same  grove,  swete  and  greene, 
There  when  he  hadde  his  amorous  desires, 
His  compleynt,  and  for  love  his  hote  fyres, 
He  wolde  make  a  fyr,  in  which  the  office 


48         THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Of  funeral  he  might  al  accomplice; 

And  gave  comaunde  anon  to  hakke  and  hewe 

The  okes  old,  and  lay  them  on  a  rowe, 

In  hepes  wel  arrayed  for  to  burn. 

His  officers  with  swifts  foot  they  runne, 

And  ryde  anon  at  his  comaundement. 

And  after  this,  Theseus  hath  men  i-sent 

After  a  bier,  and  it  al  overspredde 

With  cloth  of  golde,  the  richest  that  he  hadde. 

And  in  the  same  suit  he  clad  Arcyte ; 

Upon  his  hondtfs  were  his  glows  white; 

Eke  on  his  heed  a  croune  of  laurel  grene; 

And  in  his  hond  a  swerd  ful  bright  and  kene. 

He  leyde  him  with  bare  visage  on  the  biere. 

Therwith  he  weep  that  pity  was  to  heere. 

And  for  the  peple  shulde  see  him  alle, 

Whan  it  was  day  he  brought  them  to  the  halle, 

That  roreth  with  the  cry  and  with  the  sound. 

Then  cam  this  woful  Theban  Palamoun, 

With  flotery  berd,  and  ruggy  asshy  heeres. 

In  clothis  blak,  y-dropped  al  with  teeres, 

And,  passyng  all  in  wepyng,  Emelye, 

The  rewfullest  of  al  the  companye. 

And  in  as  moche  as  the  service  shuld  be 

The  more  noble  and  riche  in  his  degree, 

Duk  Theseus  let  forth  three  steedes  bryng. 

That  trapped  were  in  steel  al  gliteryng, 

And  covered  with  the  armes  of  Dan  Arcyte. 

Upon  the  steedes,  that  weren  grete  and  white, 

Ther  seten  folk,  of  which  one  bar  his  sheeld, 

Another  his  spere  up  in  his  hondes  held ; 

The  thridde  bar  with  him  his  bowe  Turkeys, 

Of  brend  gold  was  the  case  and  eek  the  harness ; 

And  riden  forth  a  pace  with  sorrowful  chere 

Toward  the  grove,  as  ye  shal  after  heere. 

The  nobles  of  the  Grek^s  that  ther  were 

Upon  there  shuldres  carieden  the  beere, 

With  slake  pace,  and  eyen  red  and  wete, 

Thurghout  the  citee,  by  the  maister  streete, 

That  spred  was  al  with  blak,  and  up  on  hy 

With  blak  the  houses  are  covered  utterly. 

Upon  the  right  hond  went  olde  Egeus, 

And  on  that  other  syde  duk  Theseus, 


LONGER   POEMS  49 

With  vessels  in  there  hand  of  gold  wel  fyn, 
As  ful  of  hony,  mylk>  and  blood,  and  wyn; 
Eke  Palamon.  with  a  gret  company e; 
And  after  that  com  woful  Emelye, 
With  fyr  in  hond,  as  was  that  time  the  gyse, 
To  do  the  office  of  funeral  servise. 

High  labour,  and  ful  gret  apparailyng 
Was  at  the  service  and  at  the  fyr  makyng, 
That  with  his  grene  top  reached  the  sky, 
And  twenty  fathom  broad  the  okes  lie; 
This  is  to  seyn,  the  bow^s  were  so  brode. 
Of  straw  first  was  ther  leyd  ful  many  a  lode. 
But  how  the  fyr  was  makyd  up  on  highte, 
And  eek  the  nam^s  how  the  trees  highte, 
As  ook,  fir,  birch,  asp,  aldir,  holm,  popler, 
Wilw,  elm,  plane,  assh,  box,  chestnut,  laurer, 
Mapul,  thorn,  beech,  hasil,  ew,  wyppyltree, 
How  they  were  f elde,  shal  nought  be  told  for  me ; 
Ne  how  the  godd^s  ronnen  up  and  doun, 
Disheryted  of  habitacioun, 
In  which  they  long  had  dwelt  in  rest  and  pees, 
Nymphes  and  Faunes,  and  Hamadryads; 
Nor  how  the  beestes  and  the  bridd^s  alle 
Fledden  for  feere,  when  the  woode  was  falle; 
Nor  how  the  ground  agast  was  of  the  light, 
That  was  not  wont  to  see  no  sonn^  bright; 
Nor  how  the  fyr  was  laid  with  straw  below, 
And  thenne  with  drye  stykkes  cloven  in  two, 
And  thenne  with  grene  woode  and  spicerie, 
And  thenne  with  cloth  of  gold  and  jewelry, 
And  gerlandes  hangyng  with  ful  many  a  flour, 
The  myrre,  the  incense  with  al  so  sweet  odour; 
Nor  how  Arcyte  lay  among  al  this, 
Nor  what  richesse  aboute  his  body  is  ; 
Nor  that  how  Emely,  as  was  the  gyse, 
Putt  in  the  fyr  of  funeral  servise; 
Nor  how  she  swowned  when  she  made  the  fyre, 
Nor  what  she  spak,  nor  what  was  hir  desire; 
Nor  what  jewels  men  in  the  fir*?  cast, 
When  that  the  fyr  was  gret  and  brents  fast; 
Nor  how  sum  caste  their  sheeld,  and  summe  thejr  spere, 
And  of  their  vestiments,  which  that  they  were, 
And  cuppas  ful  of  wyn,  and  mylk,  they  had, 


So         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Unto  the  f yr,  that  brent  as  it  were  mad ; 
Nor  how  the  Grek<?s  with  an  huge  route 
Thre  tymes  ryden  al  the  fyr  aboute 
Upon  the  lefte  hond,  with  an  high  shoutyng, 
And  thritfs  with  there  sperms  clateryng; 
And  thri^s  how  the  ladyes  gan  to  crye; 
Nor  how  that  home- ward  led  was  Emelye; 
Nor  how  Arcyte  is  brent  to  ashen  colde; 
Nor  howe  that  lich^-wak^  was  y-holde 
Al  that  same  night,  nor  how  the  Grek^s  pleye 
The  waktf-pley^s,  care  I  nat  to  seye; 
Who  wrastleth  best  naked,  with  oyle  enoynt, 
Nor  who  that  bar  him  best  at  every  point. 
I  wil  not  telle  eek  how  that  they  be  gon 
Horn  to  Athene  when  the  pley  is  don. 
But  shortly  to  the  poynt  now  wil  I  wende, 
And  maken  of  my  long£  tale  an  ende. 

By  proces  and  by  lengthe  of  certeyn  yeres 
Al  styntyd  is  the  mournyng  and  the  teeres 
Of  alk  Grekes,  by  general  assent. 
Then  semed  me  ther  was  a  parlement 
At  Athenes,  on  a  certeyn  poynt  and  case; 
Among  the  which^  poyntes  spoken  was 
To  have  with  certeyn  contrees  alliaunce, 
And  have  fully  of  Thebans  obeissance. 
For  which  this  noble  Theseus  anon 
Let  senden  after  gentil  Palamon, 
Unwist  of  him  what  was  the  cause  and  why; 
But  in  his  blak^  clothes  sorrowfully 
He  cam  at  his  comaund^ment  in  hye. 
Then  sent£  Theseus  for  Emelye. 
When  they  were  sette,  and  husht  was  al  the  place, 
And  Theseus  abyden  hadde  a  space 
Ere  eny  word  cam  fro  his  breste  wyse, 
His  eyen  set  he  where  he  did  devyse, 
And  with  a  sad  visage  he  sighed  stille, 
And  after  that  right  thus  he  seide  his  wille. 

"  The  first*?  movere  of  the  cause  above, 
Whan  he  first  made  the  fayre  cheyne  of  love, 
Gret  was  the  effect,  and  high  was  his  entente; 
Wei  wist  he  why,  and  what  therof  he  mente; 
For  with  that  fair^  cheyne  of  love  he  bound 
The  fyr,  the  watir,  the  air,  and  eek  the  lond 


LONGER  POEMS  51 

In  certeyn  bounces,  that  they  may  not  flee; 

That  same  prynce  and  movere  eek,"  quoth  he, 

"  Hath  stabled,  in  this  wretched  world  adoun, 

Som  certeyn  dayes  and  duracioun 

To  alle  that  are  engendrid  in  this  place, 

Beyond  the  whiche  day  they  may  nat  pace, 

Though  that  they  yit  may  wel  there  dayes  abridge; 

Ther  needeth  no  auctorite  to  allege; 

For  it  is  proved  by  experience, 

But  that  I  will  declaren  my  sentence. 

Than  may  men  wel  by  this  ordre  discerne, 

That  the  same  movere  stable  is  and  eterne. 

Wel  may  men  knowe,  but  it  be  a  fool, 

That  every  part  deryveth  from  his  whole. 

For  nature  hath  not  take  his  bygynnyng 

Of  no  partye  nor  morsel  of  a  thing, 

But  of  a  thing  that  parfyt  is  and  stable, 

Descendyng,  til  it  be  corumpable. 

And  therfore  of  his  wyse  providence 

He  hath  so  wel  biset  his  ordenaunce, 

That  kinds  of  thinges  and  progressiouns 

Shallen  endure  by  their  successiouns, 

And  not  eterne  be  without^  lye : 

This  maistow  understand  and  se  with  eye. 

"  Lo,  see  the  ook,  that  hath  long  norisschyng 
Fro  tym£  that  it  gynneth  first  to  springe, 
And  hath  so  long  a  lyf,  as  we  may  see, 
Yet  atte  laste  wasted  is  the  tree. 

"  Considereth  eek,  how  that  the  harde  stoon 
Under  oure  foot,  on  which  we  trede  and  goon, 
Yit  wasteth,  as  it  lieth  by  the  weye. 
The  brodtf  ryver  som  tyme  wexeth  dreye. 
The  grete  townes  see  we  wane  and  wende. 
Then  may  I  see  that  al  thing  hath  an  ende. 

"  Of  man  and  womman  see  we  wel  also, 
They  liven  all  in  oon  of  termes  two, 
That  is  to  seyn,  in  youthe  or  elles  in  age, 
All  must  be  deed,  the  kyng  as  shal  a  page; 
Som  in  his  bed,  som  in  the  deepe  see, 
Som  in  the  large  feeld,  as  men  may  see. 
Ther  helpeth  naught,  al  goth  the  sam^  weye, 
Thenne  may  I  see  wel  that  al  thing  shal  deye. 
What  maketh  this  but  Jupiter  the  kyng? 


52          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

The  which  is  prynce  and  cause  of  alle  thing, 
Convertyng  al  unto  his  propre  wille, 
From  which  he  is  deryv£d,  soth  to  telle. 
And  against  this  no  creature  alive 
Of  no  degree  avayleth  for  to  stryve. 

"  Then  is  it  wisdom,  as  it  thenketh  me, 
To  maken  vertu  of  necessitee, 
And  take  it  wel,  what  we  can  nat  eschewe, 
And  namely  what  to  alle  of  us  is  due. 
And  who-so  murmureth  aught,  he  doth  folye, 
And  rebel  is  to  him  that  is  on  high. 
And  certeynly  a  man  hath  most  honour 
To  deyen  in  his  excellence  and  flour, 
Whan  he  is  certeyn  of  his  goode  name. 
Then  hath  he  don  his  freend,  nor  himself  no  shame, 
And  glader  ought  his  freend  be  of  his  deth, 
When  with  honour  is  yielden  up  the  breth, 
Thanne  whan  his  name  all  feeble  is  for  age, 
And  al  forgeten  is  his  great  corage. 
Thenne  is  it  best,  as  for  a  worthi  fame, 
To  dye  whan  a  man  is  best  in  name. 
The  contrary  of  al  this  is  wilfulnesse. 
Why  murmur  we?  why  have  we  hevynesse, 
That  good  Arcyte,  of  chyvalry  the  flour, 
Departed  is,  with  worship  and  honour 
Out  of  this  fouk  prisoun  of  this  lyf  ? 
Why  murmureth  heer  his  cosyn  and  his  wyf 
At  his  welfare,  that  loven  him  so  wel? 
Can  he  them  thank?  nay,  God  wot,  not  at  all, 
They  bothe  his  soule  and  eek  themselves  offende, 
And  yet  they  may  their  sorrow  nat  amende. 

"  How  shal  I  then  conclude  verrily, 
But  after  woe  to  counsel  jolitee, 
And  thanks  Jupiter  for  al  his  grace  ? 
And  ere  that  we  departs  fro  this  place, 
I  counsel  that  we  make,  of  sorrows  two, 
One  parfyt  joye  lastyng  ever  mo: 
And  loke  now  wher  most  sorrow  is  her-inne, 
Ther  wil  we  first  amenden  and  bygynne. 

"  Sistyr,"  quoth  he,  "  this  is  my  ful  assent, 
With  al  the  advice  heer  of  my  parkment, 
That  gentil  Palamon,  your  owne  knight, 
That  serveth  you  with  herte,  wil,  and  might, 


LONGER   POEMS  53 

And  ever  hath  don,  since  fyrst  tyme  ye  him  knewe, 

That  ye  shal  of  your  grace  pity  show, 

And  take  him  for  your  housbond  and  your  lord: 

Lend  me  youre  hand,  for  this  is  cure  acord, 

Let  see  now  of  your  wommanly  pity. 

He  is  a  kynges  brothirs  son,  pardee ;          f 

And  though  he  were  a  pore  bachiller, 

Since  he  hath  served  you  so  many  a  yeer, 

And  had  for  you  so  gret  adversitee, 

Hit  moste  be  considered,  trust  to  me. 

For  gen  til  mercy  greter  is  than  right." 

Than  seyde  he  thus  to  Palamon  ful  right; 

"  I  trowe  ther  needeth  litel  sermonyng 

To  maken  you  assente  to  this  thing. 

Com  neer,  and  tak  your  lady  by  the  hond." 

Betwix  them  was  i-made  anon  the  bond, 

That  highte  matrimoyn  or  mariage, 

By  alle  the  counseil  of  the  baronage. 

And  thus  with  bliss  and  eek  with  melody e 

Hath  Palamon  i- wedded  Emelye. 

And  God,  that  al  this  wyde  world  hath  wrought, 

Send  him  his  love,  that  hath  it  deere  i-bought. 

For  now  is  Palamon  in  al  his  wealth, 

Lyvynge  in  blisse,  richesse,  and  in  health, 

And  Emely  him  loveth  so  tendirly, 

And  he  hir  serveth  al  so  gentilly, 

That  never  was  ther  word  bitweene  them  two 

Of  jelousy,  nor  of  non  othir  woe. 

Thus  endeth  Palamon  and  Emelye; 

And  God  save  al  this  fayre  companye !  Amen ! 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 


LONDON  LICKPENNY 

To  London  once  my  steps  I  bent, 
Where  truth  in  nowise  should  be  faint ; 

.To  Westminster-ward  I  forthwith  went, 
To  a  Man  of  Law  to  make  complaint, 
I  said  "  For  Mary's  love,  that  holy  saint. 
Pity  the  poor  that  would  proceed!  " 
But  for  lack  of  Money  I  could  not  speed. 


54         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

And  as  I  thrust  the  press  among, 
By  froward  chance  my  hood  was  gone; 

Yet  for  all  that  I  stayed  not  long 
Till  to  the  King's  Bench  I  was  come. 
Before  the  Judge  I  kneel'd  anon, 
And  pray'd  him  for  God's  sake  to  take  heed. 
But  for  lack  of  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

Beneath  them  sat  clerks  a  great  rout, 
Which  fast  did  write  by  one  assent, 

There  stood  up  one  and  cried  about 
"  Richard,  Robert,  and  John  of  Kent!  " 
I  wist  not  well  what  this  man  meant, 
He  cried  so  thickly  there  indeed. 
But  he  that  lacked  Money  might  not  speed  * 

Unto  the  Common  Pleas  I  yode l  tho, 
Where  sat  one  with  a  silken  hood ; 

I  did  him  reverence,  for  I  ought  to  do  so, 
And  told  my  case  as  well  as  I  coud, 
How  my  goods  were  defrauded  me  by  falsehood. 
I  got  not  a  mum  of  his  mouth  for  my  meed, 
And  for  lack  of  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

Unto  the  Rolls  I  gat  me  from  thence, 
Before  the  clerkes  of  the  Chancerie, 

Where  many  I  found  earning  of  pence, 
But  none  at  all  once  regarded  me. 
I  gave  them  my  plaint  upon  my  knee ; 
They  liked  it  well  when  they  had  it  read, 
But  lacking  Money  I  could  not  be  sped. 

In  Westminster  Hall  I  found  out  one 
Which  went  in  a  long  gown  of  ray, 2 

I  crouched  and  kneeled  before  him  anon, 
For  Marye's  love  of  help  I  him  pray. 
"  I  wot  not  what  thou  mean'st,"  gan  he  say; 
To  get  me  thence  he  did  me  bede, 
For  lack  of  money  I  could  not  speed. 

Within  this  Hall,  neither  rich  nor  yet  poor 
Would  do  for  me  aught  although  I  should  die. 

Which  seeing,  I  got  me  out  of  the  door 
Where  Flemings  began  on  me  for  to  cry, 
1  Went.  -  Striped  cloth. 


LONGER  POEMS  55 

"  Master,  what  will  you  copen l  or  buy? 

Fine  felt  hats,  or  spectacles  to  read  ? 

Lay  down  your  silver,  and  here  you  may  speed." 

Then  to  Westminster  Gate  I  presently  went, 

When  the  sun  was  at  highe  prime; 
Cookes  to  me  they  took  good  intent, 

And  proffered  me  bread  with  ale  and  wine, 

Ribs  of  beef,  both  fat  and  full  fine ; 

A  faire  cloth  they  gan  for  to  sprede, 

But  wanting  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  unto  London  I  did  me  hie, 
Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  prise. 

"  Hot  peascodes!  "  one  began  to  cry, 
"  Strawberry  ripe!  "  and  "  Cherries  in  the  rise!  " 
One  bade  me  come  near  and  buy  some  spice, 
Pepper  and  saffrone  they  gan  me  bede,2 
But  for  lack  of  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  to  the  Cheap  I  began  me  drawn, 
Where  much  people  I  saw  for  to  stand ; 

One  offered  me  velvuet,  silk,  and  lawn, 
Another  he  taketh  me  by  the  hand, 
"  Here  is  Paris  thread,  the  fin'st  in  the  land!  " 
I  never  was  used  to  such  things  indeed, 
And  wanting  Money  I  might  not  speed. ' 

Then  went  I  forth  by  London  Stone, 

Throughout  all  Can'wick  Street.3 
Drapers  much  cloth  me  offered  anon; 

Then  comes  me  one  cried,  "  Hot  sheep's  feet!  " 
One  criede  "Mackerel!"   "Rushes  green!"   another 
gan  greet;4 

One  bade  me  buy  a  hood  to  cover  my  head, 

But  for  want  of  Money  I  might  not  be  sped. 

Then  I  hied  me  into  East  Cheap; 

One  cries  "  Ribs  of  beef,"  and  many  a  pie; 
Pewter  pottes  they  clatter'd  on  a  heap, 

There  was  harpe,  pipe,  and  minstrelsie. 

1  (Dutch  "  koopen  "),  buy.  Bid. 

8  Candlewick  Street,  where  Cannon  Street  now  runs.         *  Cry. 
C  746 


56         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

"  Yea,  by  cock!  "   "  Nay,  by  cock!  "  some  began  cry; 
Some  sung  of  Jenkin  and  Julian  for  their  meed, 
But  for  lack  of  Money  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  into  Cornhill  anon  I  yode, 

Where  was  much  stolen  gear  among; 
I  saw  where  hung  mine  owne  hood 

That  I  had  lost  among  the  throng: 

To  buy  my  own  hood  I  thought  it  wrong; 

I  knew  it  well  as  I  did  my  Creed, 

But  for  lack  of  Money  I  could  not  speed. 

The  taverner  took  me  by  the  sleeve, 

"  Sir,"  saith  he,  "  will  you  our  wine  assay?  " 
I  answered,  "  That  cannot  much  me  grieve, 

A  penny  can  do  no  more  than  it  may." 

I  drank  a  pint,  and  for  it  I  did  pay. 

Yet  soon  ahungered  from  thence  I  yede, 

And  wanting  Money  I  could  not  speed. 

Then  hied  I  me  to  Billingsgate, 

And  one  cried,  "  Hoo!  Go  we  hence!  " 
I  prayed  a  barge  man,  for  God'ses  sake, 

That  he  would  spare  me  my  expence. 

"  Thou  scrap'st  not  here,"  quoth  he,  "  under  two  pence; 

I  list  not  yet  bestow  any  alms  deed." 

Thus  lacking  Money  I  could  not  speed. 

Then  I  conveyed  me  into  Kent ; 

For  of  the  law  would  I  meddle  no  more, 
Because  no  man  to  me  took  intent, 

I  dight  me  to  do  as  I  did  before. 

Now  Jesus,  that  in  Bethlehem  was  bore, 

Save  London,  and  send  true  lawyers  their  meed ! 

For  whoso  wants  Money  with  them  shall  not  speed. 

JOHN  LYDGATE. 


LONGER  POEMS  57 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  END 

"  HAST  thou  ony  greencloth," 
"  That  thou  wylte  sell  to  me?  " 

"  Yea,  fore  God/'  sayd  Robyn, 
"  Thirty  yerdes  and  three." 

"  Robyn,"  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  Now  pray  I  thee 
To  sell  me  some  of  that  cloth. 

To  me  and  my  meyne." 

"  Yes,  fore  God/'  then  sayd  Robyn, 

"  Or  elles  I  were  a  fool; 
Another  day  ye  wyll  me  clothe, 

I  trowe,  ayenst  the  Yule." 

The  kynge  cast  off  his  coat  then, 

A  grene  garment  he  did  on, 
And  every  knyght  did  so,  i-wys, 

They  clothed  them  full  soon. 
Whan  they  were  clothed  in  Lincoln  green, 

They  kest  away  their  gray. 
Now  we  shall  to  Notyngham, 

All  thus  our  kynge  gan  say. 
Their  bowes  bent,  forth  they  went, 

Shotynge  all  in-fere, 
Toward  the  town  of  Notyngham, 

Outlaws  as  they  were. 

Our  kynge  and  Robyn  rode  togyder, 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say, 
And  they  shot  pluck-buffet, 

As  they  went  by  the  way; 
And  many  a  buffet  our  kynge  wan, 

Of  Robyn  Hode  that  day: 
And  nothing  spared  good  Robyn 

Our  kynge  in  his  pay. 
"  So  God  me  helpe,"  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  Thy  name  is  nought  to  lere, 
I  sholde  not  get  a  shot  of  thee, 

Though  I  shot  all  this  yere." 


58         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

All  the  people  of  Notyngham 

They  stode  and  behelde, 
They  saw  nothyng  but  mantels  of  grene 

They  covered  all  the  felde; 
Than  every  man  to  other  gan  say, 

I  drede  our  kynge  be  slone ; 
Come  Robyn  Hode  to  the  towne,  i-wys, 

On  lyve  he  leaveth  not  one. 
Full  hastily  they  began  to  flee, 

Both  yeomen  and  knaves, 
And  olde  wyves  that  myght  evyll  goo, 

They  hopped  on  theyr  staves. 

The  kynge  laughe  full  fast, 

And  commanded  theym  agayne ; 
When  they  see  our  comly  kynge, 

I-wys  they  were  full  fayne. 
They  ete  and  drank,  and  made  them  glad, 
$       And  sang  with  notes  hye. 
Than  bespake  our  comly  kynge 

To  syr  Rycharde  at  the  Lee: 
He  gave  hym  there  his  londe  again, 

A  good  man  he  bad  hym  be. 
Robyn  thanked  our  comely  kynge, 

And  set  hym  on  his  knee. 

Had  Robyn  dwelled  in  the  kynges  courte 

But  twelve  monethes  and  three 
That  he  had  spent  an  hondred  pounde, 

And  all  his  mennes  fee. 
In  every  place  where  Robyn  came, 

Ever  more  he  layde  down, 
Both  for  knyghtes  and  squyres, 

To  gete  hym  grete  renown. 
By  than  the  year  was  all  agone, 

He  had  no  man  but  twayn 
Lytell  Johan  and  good  Scathelocke, 

Wyth  hym  all  for  to  gone. 
Robyn  sawe  yonge  men  shoot, 

Full  fayre  upon  a  day, 
"  Alas!  "  than  sayd  good  Robyn, 

"  My  welthe  is  went  away. 
Sometyme  I  was  an  archer  good, 


LONGER  POEMS  59 

A  stiff  and  eke  a  stronge, 
I  was  committed  the  best  archer, 

That  was  in  mery  Englonde. 
Alas!  "  then  sayd  good  Robyn, 

"  Alas  and  well  a  day! 
Yf  I  dwell  lenger  with  the  kynge, 

Sorrow  wyll  me  slay!  " 

Forth' than  went  Robyn  Hode, 

Tyll  he  came  to  our  kynge: 
"  My  lorde  the  kynge  of  Englonde, 

Graunte  me  myn  askynge. 
I  made  a  chapell  in  Bernysdale, 

That  semely  is  to  see 
It  is  of  Mary  Magdalene, 

And  thereto  would  I  be; 
I  might  never  in  this  seven  night, 

No  tyme  to  sleep  ne  wynke, 
Nother  all  these  seven  dayes, 

Nother  ete  ne  drynke. 
Me  longeth  sore  to  Bernysdale, 

I  may  not  be  therfro, 
Barefote  and  wolwarde  I  have  hyght 

Thither  for  to  go." 

"  Yf  it  be  so/'  then  sayd  our  kynge, 

"  It  may  no  better  be; 
Seven  nyght  I  give  thee  leave, 

No  lengre,  to  dwell  fro  me/' 

"  Gramercy,  lorde,"  then  sayd  Robyn 

And  set  hym  on  his  kne; 
He  toke  his  leave  full  court ey sly, 

To  grene  wode  then  went  he. 
Whan  he  came  to  grene  wode, 

In  a  mery  mornynge, 
There  he  herde  the  notes  small 

Of  byrdes  mery  syngynge. 
"  It  is  ferre  gone,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  That  I  was  last  here, 
Me  lyste  a  lytell  for  to  shote 

At  the  dun  deere." 
Robyn  slewe  a  full  grete  harte, 


6o         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

His  home  than  gan  he  blow, 
That  all  the  outlawes  of  that  forest, 
That  home  could  they  know, 
And  gathered  them  together, 

In  a  lytell  throw, 
Seven  score  of  wight  yonge  men, 

Came  ready  in  a  row; 
And  fayre  dyde  off  theyr  hoods, 

And  set  them  on  theyr  knee: 
"  Welcome,"  they  sayd,  "  our  mayster, 

Under  this  grenewood  tree!  " 

Robyn  dwelled  in  grenewood, 

Twenty  yere  and  two, 
For  all  drede  of  Edwarde  our  kynge, 

Agayne  wolde  he  not  goo. 
Yet  he  was  begyled,  I  wys, 

Through  a  wycked  woman, 
The  pryoresse  of  Kyrkesly, 

That  nye  was  of  his  kynne, 
For  the  love  of  a  knyght, 

Syr  Roger  of  Donkesley, 
That  was  her  fere,  speciall 

Full  evyll  mote  they  thee. 

They  toke  together  their  counsell 

Robyn  Hode  for  to  sle, 
And  how  they  myght  best  do  that'deed, 

His  ill  death  for  to  be. 
Than  bespake  good  Robyn, 

In  place  where  as  he  stode, 
To  morow  I  must  to  Kyrkesley, 

Craftely  to  be  leten  blode. 
Syr  Roger  of  Donkestere, 

By  the  Pryoresse  he  lay, 
And  there  they  betrayed  good  Robyn  Hode, 

Through  their  false  play. 
Cryst  have  mercy  on  his  soule, 

That  dyed  on  the  rood ! 
For  he  was  a  good  outlawe, 

And  did  poor  men  moch  good. 

ANON. 


LONGER  POEMS  61 


THE  RESTLESS  STATE  OF  A  LOVER 

THE  sun  hath  twice  brought  forth  his  tender  green, 

And  clad  the  earth  in  lively  lustiness : 

Once  have  the  winds  the  trees  despoiled  clean, 

And  new  again  begins  their  cruelness, 

Since  I  have  hid  under  my  breast  the  harm 

That  never  shall  recover  healthfulness. 

The  winters  hurt  recovers  with  the  warm: 

The  parched  green  restored  is  with  the  shade. 

What  warmth  (alas)  may  serve  for  to  disarm 

The  frozen  heart  that  mine  in  flame  hath  made  ? 

What  cold  again  is  able  to  restore 

My  fresh  green  years,  that  wither  thus  and  fade  ? 

Alas,  I  see,  nothing  hath  hurt  so  sore, 

But  time  in  time  reduceth  a  return: 

In  time,  my  harm  increaseth  more  and  more, 

And  seems  to  have  my  cure  always  in  scorn. 

Strange  kinds  of  death,  in  life  that  I  do  try, 

At  hand  to  melt,  far  off  in  flame  to  burn. 

And  like  as  time  list  to  my  cure  apply, 

So  doth  each  place  my  comfort  clean  refuse. 

All  thing  alive,  that  seeth  the  heavens  with  eye, 

With  cloak  of  night  may  cover,  and  excuse 

It  self  from  travail  of  the  day's  unrest, 

Save  I,  alas,  against  all  others  use, 

That  then  stir  up  the  torments  of  my  breast, 

And  curse  each  star  as  causer  of  my  fate. 

And  when  the  sun  hath  eke  the  dark  opprest, 

And  brought  the  day,  it  doth  nothing  abate 

The  travails  of  mine  endless  smart  and  pain, 

For  then,  as  one  that  hath  the  light  in  hate, 

I  wish  for  night,  more  covertly  to  plain, 

And  me  withdraw  from  every  haunted  place, 

Lest  by  my  cheer  my  chance  appear  too  plain : 

And  in  my  mind  I  measure  pace  by  pace, 

To  seek  the  place  where  I  my  self  had  lost, 

That  day  that  I  was  tangled  in  the  lace, 

In  seeming  slack  that  knitteth  ever  most: 

But  never  yet  the  travail  of  my  thought 

Of  better  state  could  catch  a  cause  to  boast. 


62         THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

For  if  I  found  sometime  that  I  have  sought, 
Those  stars  by  whom  I  trusted  of  the  port, 
My  sails  do  fall,  and  I  advance  right  nought, 
As  anchored  fast,  my  spirits  do  all  resort 
To  stand  agazed,  and  sink  in  more  and  more 
The  deadly  harm  which  she  doth  take  in  sport. 
Lo,  if  I  seek,  how  I  do  find  my  sore  : 
And  if  I  flee  I  carry  with  me  still 
The  venom' d  shaft,  which  doth  his  force  restore 
By  haste  of  flight,  and  I  may  plain  my  fill 
Unto  my  self,  unless  this  careful  song 
Print  in  your  heart  some  parcel  of  my  tene; 
For  I,  alas,  in  silence  all  too  long 
Of  mine  old  hurt  yet  feel  the  wound  but  green. 
Rue  on  my  life;  or  else  your  cruel  wrong 
Shall  well  appear,  and  by  my  death  be  seen. 

EARL  OF  SURREY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

WYATT  resteth  here,  that  quick  could  never  rest: 
Whose  heavenly  gifts  increased  by  disdain ; 

And  virtue  sank  the  deeper  in  his  breast : 
Such  profit  he  by  envy  could  obtain. 

A  head,  where  wisdom  mysteries  did  frame; 

Whose  hammers  beat  still  in  that  lively  brain, 
As  on  a  stithy  where  that  some  work  of  fame 

Was  daily  wrought,  to  turn  to  Britain's  gain. 

A  visage  stern,  and  mild ;  where  both  did  grow 
Vice  to  contemn,  in  virtue  to  rejoice: 

Amid  great  storms,  whom  grace  assured  so, 
To  live  upright,  and  smile  at  fortune's  choice. 

A  hand,  that  taught  what  might  be  said  in  rhyme ; 

That  reft  Chaucer  the  glory  of  his  wit. 
A  mark,  the  which  (unperfected  for  time) 

Some  may  approach,  but  never  none  shall  hit. 


LONGER  POEMS  63 

A  tongue,  that  served  in  foreign  realms  his  king; 

Whose  courteous  talk  to  virtue  did  inflame 
Each  noble  heart;  a  worthy  guide  to  bring 

Our  English  youth  by  travail  unto  fame. 

An  eye,  whose  judgment  none  affect  could  blind, 
Friends  to  allure,  and  foes  to  reconcile; 

Whose  piercing  look  did  represent  a  mind 
With  virtue  fraught,  reposed,  void  of  guile. 

A  heart,  where  dread  was  never  so  imprest 

To  hide  the  thought  that  might  the  truth  advance ! 

In  neither  fortune  loft,  nor  yet  represt, 

To  swell  in  wealth,  or  yield  unto  mischance. 

A  valiant  corpse,  where  force  and  beauty  met  : 

Happy,  alas !  too  happy,  but  for  foes, 
Lived,  and  ran  the  race  that  nature  set; 

Of  manhood's  shape,  where  she  the  mould  did  lose. 

But  to  the  heavens  that  simple  soul  is  fled, 
Which  left,  with  such  as  covet  Christ  to  know, 

Witness  of  faith,  that  never  shall  be  dead ; 
Sent  for  our  health,  but  not  received  so. 

Thus  for  our  guilt  this  jewel  have  we  lost; 

The  earth  his  bones,  the  heavens  possess  his  ghost. 

EARL  OF  SURREY. 


OF  THE  COURTIER'S  LIFE 
(TO  JOHN  POINS) 

MINE  own  John  Poins,  since  ye  delight  to  know 
The  causes  why  that  homeward  I  me  draw, 
And  flee  the  press  of  Courts,  whereso  they  go, 

Rather  than  to  live  thrall  under  the  awe 


64         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Of  lordly  looks;  wrapped  within  my  cloak, 
To  will  and  lust  learning  to  set  a  law: 

It  is  not  that,  because  I  scorn  or  mock 

The  power  of  them  to  whom  fortune  hath  lent 
Charge  over  us,  of  right  to  strike  the  stroke; 

But  true  it  is,  that  I  have  always  meant 

Less  to  esteem  them  than  the  common  sort 
Of  outward  things  that  judge  in  their  intent, 

Without  regard  what  inward  doth  resort. 
I  grant  sometime  of  glory  that  the  fire 
Doth  touch  my  heart.  Me  list  not  to  report 

Blame  by  honour,  and  honour  to  desire. 
But  how  may  I  this  honour  now  attain, 
That  cannot  dye  the  colour  black  a  liar? 

My  Poins,  I  cannot  frame  my  tongue  to  feign; 
To  cloke  the  truth  for  praise,  without  desert, 
Of  them  that  list  all  vice  for  to  retain. 

I  cannot  honour  them  that  set  their  part 

With  Venus  and  Bacchus  all  their  life  long; 
Nor  hold  my  peace  of  them,  although  I  smart. 

I  cannot  crouch  nor  kneel  to  such  a  wrong, 
To  worship  them  like  God  on  earth  alone, 
That  are  as  wolves  these  sely  lambs  among. 

I  cannot  with  my  words  complain  and  moan, 

And  suffer  nought;  nor  smart  without  complaint; 
Nor  turn  the  word  that  from  my  mouth  is  gone. 

I  cannot  speak  and  look  like  as  a  saint; 

Use  wiles  for  wit,  and  make  deceit  a  pleasure; 
And  call  craft,  counsel ;  for  lucre  still  to  paint. 

I  cannot  wrest  the  law  to  fill  the  coffer, 

With  innocent  blood  to  feed  my  self  fat, 

And  do  most  hurt,  where  that  most  help  I  offer. 

I  am  not  he  that  can  allow  the  state 

Of  high  Caesar,  and  damn  Cato  to  die, 

That  with  his  death  did  scape  out  of  the  gate 

From  Caesar's  hands,  if  Livy  doth  not  lie, 

And  would  not. live  where  liberty  was  lost: 
So  did  his  heart  the  common  wealth  apply. 

I  am  not  he,  such  eloquence  to  boast, 

To  make  the  crow  in  singing  as  the  swan; 
Nor  call  the  lion  of  coward  beasts  the  most, 

That  cannot  take  a  mouse,  as  the  cat  can; 
And  he  that  dieth  for  hunger  of  the  gold, 


LONGER  POEMS  65 

Call  him  Alexander;  and  say  that  Pan 

Passeth  Apollo  in  music  many  fold; 
Praise  Sir  Thopas  for  a  noble  tale, 
And  scorn  the  story  that  the  Knight  told; 

Praise  him  for  counsel  that  is  drunk  of  ale; 

Grin  when  he  laughs  that  beareth  all  the  sway, 
Frown  when  he  frowns,  and  groan  when  he  is  pale; 

On  others'  lust  to  hang  both  night  and  day. 

None  of  these  points  would  ever  frame  in  me  : 
My  wit  is  nought,  I  cannot  learn  the  way. 

And  much  the  less  of  things  that  greater  be; 
That  asken  help  of  colours  to  devise 
To  join  the  mean  with  each  extremity; 

With  nearest  virtue  aye  to  cloke  the  vice; 
And,  as  to  purpose  likewise  it  shall  fall, 
To  press  the  virtue  that  it  may  not  rise. 

As,  drunkenness  good  fellowship  to  call; 

The  friendly  foe,  with  his  fair  double  face, 
Say  he  is  gentle  and  courteous  therewithal; 

Affirm  that  favel  hath  a  goodly  grace 
In  eloquence;  and  cruelty  to  name 
Zeal  of  justice,  and  change  in  time  and  place; 

And  he  that  suffereth  offence  without  blame, 
Call  him  pitiful;  and  him  true  and  plain 
That  raileth  reckless  unto  each  man's  shame; 

Say  he  is  rude,  that  cannot  lie  and  feign; 
The  lecher,  a  lover;  and  tyranny 
To  be  the  right  of  a  prince's  reign. 

I  cannot,  I,  no,  no !  it  will  not  be. 

This  is  the  cause  that  I  could  never  yet 

Hang  on  their  sleeves  that  weigh,  as  thou  mayst  see, 

A  chip  of  chance  more  than  a  pound  of  wit. 

This  maketh  me  at  home  to  hunt  and  hawk, 
And  in  foul  weather  at  my  book  to  sit, 

In  frost  and  snow,  then  with  my  bow  to  stalk. 
No  man  doth  mark  whereso  I  ride  or  go. 
In  lusty  leas  at  liberty  I  walk; 

And  of  these  news  I  feel  nor  weal  nor  woe, 

Save  that  a  clog  doth  hang  yet  at  my  heel. 
No  force  for  that;  for  it  is  ordered  so 

That  I  may  leap  both  hedge  and  dike  full  wele. 
I  am  not  now  in  France  to  judge  the  wine, 
With  savoury  sauce  the  delicates  to  feel; 


66         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Nor  yet  in  Spain,  where  one  must  him  incline 
Rather  than  to  be,  outwardly  to  seem. 
I  meddle  not  with  wits  that  be  so  fine. 

Nor  Flanders  cheer  lets  not  my  sight  to  deem 
Of  black  and  white,  nor  takes  my  wit  away 
With  beastliness;  such  do  those  beasts  esteem. 

Nor  I  am  not  where  truth  is  given  in  prey 
For  money,  poison,  and  treason,  of  some 
A  common  practice,  use"  d  night  and  day. 

But  I  am  here  in  Kent  and  Christendom, 

Among  the  Muses,  where  I  read  and  rhyme  : 
Where  if  thou  list,  mine  own  John  Poins,  to  come, 

Thou  shalt  be  judge  how  I  do  spend  my  time. 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 


PROTHALAMION 

"  A  Spousall  Verse,  made  by  Edm.  Spenser,  in  honour  of  the  double 
manage  of  the  two  honorable  and  vertuous  ladies,  the  Ladie  Elizabeth, 
and  the  Ladie  Katherine  Somerset,  daughters  to  the  right  honourable 
the  Earle  of  Worcester,  and  espoused  to  the  two  worthie  gentlemen 
M.  Henry  Gilford  and  M.  William  Peter  Esquyers,"  1596. 

CALME  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ayre 

Sweete-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play 

A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 

Hot  Titans  beames,  which  then  did  glyster  fayre; 

When  I,  (whom  sullein  care, 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitlesse  stay 

In  Princes  Court,  and  expectation  vayne 

Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away, 

Like  empty  shaddowes,  did  afflict  my  brayne,) 

Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne 

Along  the  shoare  of  silver  streaming  Themmes; 

Whose  rutty  Bancke,  he  which  his  River  hemmes 

Was  paynted  all  with  variable  flowers, 

And  all  the  meades  adornd  with  daintie  gemmes 

Fit  to  decke  maydens  bowres, 

And  crowne  their  Paramours 

Against  the  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long  : 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

There,  in  a  Meadow,  by  the  Rivers  side, 
A  Flocke  of  Nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy, 


LONGER  POEMS  67 

All  lovely  Daughters  of  the  Flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untyde, 

As  each  had  bene  a  Bryde; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 

Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrayled  curiously, 

In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 

And  with  fine  Fingers  cropt  full  feateously 

The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 

Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  Meadow  grew, 

They  gathered  some;  the  Violet,  pallid  blew, 

The  little  Dazie,  that  at  evening  closes, 

The  virgin  Lillie,  and  the  Primrose  trew, 

With  store  of  vermeil  Roses, 

To  decke  their  Bridegromes  posies 

Against  the  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweet e  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  Swannes  of  goodly  hewe 
Come  softly  swimming  downe  along  the  Lee; 
Two  fairer  Birds  I  yet  did  never  see ; 
The  snow,  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew, 
Did  never  whiter  shew, 

Nor  Jove  himselfe,  when  he  a  Swan  would  be, 
For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appeare ; 
Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 
Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  neare; 
So  purely  white  they  were, 

That  even  the  gentle  streame,  the  which  them  bare, 
Seem'd  foule  to  them,  and  bad  his  billowes  spare 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  least  they  might 
Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so  fayre, 
And  marre  their  beauties  bright, 
That  shone  as  heavens  light, 
Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Eftsoones  the  Nymphes,  which  now  had  Flowers  their 

fill, 

Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  Christal  Flood; 
Whom  when  they  sawe,  they  stood  amazed  stil  1, 
Their  wondring  eyes  to  fill; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fayre, 


68         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Of  Fowles,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deeme 
Them  heavenly  borne,  or  to  be  that  same  payre 
Which  through  the  Skie  draw  Venus  silver  Teeme; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seeme 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  Seede, 
But  rather  angels,  or  of  Angels  breeder 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  Somers-heat,  they  say, 
In  sweetest  Season,  when  each  Flower  and  weede 
The  earth  did  fresh  aray; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 
Even  as  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 

Great  store  of  Flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field,         * 

That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield, 

All  which  upon  those  goodly  Birds  they  threw 

And  all  the  Waves  did  strew, 

That  like  old  Peneus  Waters  they  did  seeme, 

When  downe  along  by  pleasant  Tempes  shore 

Scattred  with  Flowers,  through  Thessaly  they  streeme, 

That  they  appeare,  through  Lillies  plenteous  store, 

Like  a  Brydes  Chamber  flore. 

Two  of  those  Nymphes,  meane  while,  two  Garlands 

bound 

Of  freshest  Flowres  which  in  that  Mead  they  found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  Array. 
Their  snowie  Foreheads  therewithall  they  crownd, 
WhiPst  one  did  sing  this  Lay, 
Prepar'd  against  that  Day, 
Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

"  Ye  gentle  Birdes!  the  worlds  faire  ornament, 
And  heavens  glorie,  whom  this  happie  hower 
Doth  leade  unto  your  lovers  blisfull  bower, 
Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts  content 
Of  your  loves  couplement; 
And  let  faire  Venus,  that  is  Queene  of  love, 
With  her  heart-quelling  Sonne  upon  you  smile, 
Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  vertue  to  remove 
All  Loves  dislike,  and  friendships  faultie  guile 
For  ever  to  assoile. 


LONGER  POEMS  69 

Let  endlesse  Peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 

And  blessed  Plentie  wait  upon  your  bord; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chast  abound, 

That  fruitfull  issue  may  to  you  afford, 

Which  may  your  foes  confound, 

And  make  your  joyes  redound 

Upon  your  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softlie,  till  I  end  my  Song." 

So  ended  she ;  and  all  the  rest  around 
To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, 
Which  said  their  brydale  daye  should  not  be  long : 
And  gentle  Eccho  from  the  neighbour  ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  Birdes  did  passe  along, 
Adowne  the  Lee,  that  to.  them  murmurde  low, 
As  he  would  speake,  but  that  he  lackt  a  tong, 
Yet  did  by  signes  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making  his  streame  run  slow. 
And  all  the  foule  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
Gan  flock  about  these  tsvaine,  that  did  excell 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 
The  lesser  starres.  So  they,  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend, 
And  their  best  service  lend 
Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

At  length  they  all  to  mery  London  came, 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  Nurse, 

That  to  me  gave  this  Lifes  first  native  sourse, 

Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 

An  house  of  auncient  fame: 

There  when  they  came,  whereas  those  bricky  towres 

The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  backe  doe  ryde, 

Where  now  the  studious  Lawyers  have  their  bowers, 

There  whylome  wont  the  Templer  Knights  to  byde, 

Till  they  decayd  through  pride: 

Next  whereunto  there  standes  a  stately  place, 

Where  oft  I  gayned  giftes  and  goodly  grace 

Of  that  great  Lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 

Whose  want  too  well  now  feeles  my  freendles  case; 

But  ah !  here  fits  not  well 


70         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Olde  woes,  but  joyes,  to  tell 

Against  the  bridale  daye,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  Peer, 

Great  Englands  glory,  and  the  Worlds  wide  wonder, 

Whose  dreadfull  name  late  through  all  Spaine  did 

thunder, 

And  Hercules  two  pillors  standing  neere 
Did  make  to  quake  and  feare: 
Faire  branch  of  Honor,  flower  of  Chevalrie ! 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphes  fame, 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie, 
And  endlesse  happinesse  of  thine  owne  name 
That  promiseth  the  same; 

That  through  thy  prowesse,  and  victorious  armes, 
Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  f orraine  harmes ; 
And  great  Elisaes  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through  al  the  world,  fil'd  with  thy  wide  Alarmes, 
Which  some  brave  muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following. 
Upon  the  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

From  those  high  Towers  this  noble  Lord  issuing, 

Like  Radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hayre 

In  th'  Ocean  billowes  he  hath  bathed  fayre, 

Descended  to  the  Rivers  open  vewing, 

With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  scene 

Two  gentle  Knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  Queene, 

With  gifts  of  wit,  and  ornaments  of  nature, 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight, 

Which  decke  the  Bauldricke  of  the  Heavens  bright; 

They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  Rivers  side, 

Received  those  two  faire  Brides,  their  Loves  delight; 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde, 

Each  one  did  make  his  Bryde 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes!  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 


LONGER  POEMS  71 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH 

I  LOATHE  that  I  did  love, 
In  youth  that  I  thought  sweet, 

As  time  requires  for  my  behove 
Methinks  they  are  not  meet. 

My  longings  do  me  leave. 

My  fancies  all  are  fled, 
And  tract  of  time  begins  to  weave 

Grey  hairs  upon  my  head. 

For  Age  with  stealing  steps 

Hath  clawed  me  with  his  crutch, 

And  lusty  Life  away  she  leaps 
As  there  had  been  none  such. 

My  Muse  doth  not  delight 

Me  as  she  did  before; 
My  hand  and  pen  are  not  in  plight, 

As  they  have  been  of  yore. 

For  Reason  me  denies 

This  youthly  idle  rhyme; 
And  day  by  day  to  me  she  cries, 

"  Leave  off  these  toys  in  time." 

The  wrinkles  in  my  brow, 

The  furrows  in  my  face, 
Say,  limping  Age  will  lodge  him  now, 

Where  Youth  must  give  him  place. 

The  harbinger  of  Death, 

To  me  I  see  him  ride; 
The  cough,  the  cold,  the  gasping  breath 

Doth  bid  me  to  provide 

A  pickaxe  and  a  spade, 

And  eke  a  shrouding  sheet, 
A  house  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
•   For  such  a  guest  most  meet. 


72         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Methinks  I  hear  the  clerk, 

That  knolls  the  careful  knell, 
And  bids  me  leave  my  woeful  work, 

Ere  Nature  me  compel. 

My  keepers  knit  the  knot 
That  Youth  did  laugh  to  scorn, 

Of  me  that  clean  shall  be  forgot, 
As  I  had  not  been  born. 

Thus  must  I  youth  give  up, 
Whose  badge  I  long  did  wear; 

To  them  I  yield  the  wanton  cup 
That  better  may  it  bare. 

Lo,  here  the  bared  skull, 

By  whose  bald  sign  I  know, 
That  stooping  Age  away  shall  pull 

Which  youthful  years  did  sow. 

For  Beauty  with  her  band 
These  crooked  cares  hath  wrought, 

And  shipped  me  into  the  land 
From  whence  I  first  was  brought. 

And  ye  that  bide  behind, 

Have  ye  none  other  trust: 
As  ye  of  clay  were  cast  by  kind, 

So  shall  ye  waste  to  dust. 

LORD  VAUX. 


AGINCOURT 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 


LONGER  POEMS  73 

And  taking  many  a  fort 
Furnish'd  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopp'd  his  way 
Where  the  French  Gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  King  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 
"  Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed : 
Yet  have  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"  And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be, 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  me: 
Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

"  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell : 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  Lilies. " 


74         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen; 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there, — 
0  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone : 
Armour  on  armour  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, — 

To  hear  was  wonder. 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  did'st  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ; 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung 

Piercing  the  weather ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went, 

Our  men  were  hardy. 


LONGER  POEMS  75 

Thus  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad-sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  Duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  Royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up: 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry: 
0  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry ! 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


76         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 


MUSIC'S  DUEL 

Now  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest  beams 
Of  Noon's  high  glory,  when  hard  by  the  streams 
Of  Tiber,  on  the  scene  of  a  green  plat, 
Under  protection  of  an  oak,  there  sate 
A  sweet  Lute's-master;  in  whose  gentle  airs 
He  lost  the  day's  heat,  and  his  own  hot  cares. 

Close  in  the  covert  of  the  leaves  there  stood 
A  nightingale,  come  from  the  neighbouring  wood : 
(The  sweet  inhabitant  of  each  glad  tree, 
Their  Muse,  their  Syren — harmless  Syren  she !) 
There  stood  she  list'ning,  and  did  entertain 
The  music's  soft  report,  and  mould  the  same 
In  her  own  murmurs,  that  whatever  mood 
His  curious  fingers  lent,  her  voice  made  good : 
The  man  perceiv'd  his  rival,  and  her  art; 
Dispos'd  to  give  the  light-foot  lady  sport, 
Awakes  his  lute,  and  'gainst  the  fight  to  come 
Informs  it  in  a  sweet  preludium 
Of  closer  strains,  and  ere  the  war  begin, 
He  lightly  skirmishes  on  every  string, 
Charg'd  with  a  flying  touch:  and  straightway  she 
Carves  out  her  dainty  voice  as  readily, 
Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguish'd  tones, 
And  reckons  up  in  soft  divisions, 
Quick  volumes  of  wild  notes ;  to  let  him  know 
By  that  shrill  taste,  she  could  do  something  too. 

His  nimble  hands'  instinct  then  taught  each  string 
A  cap'ring  cheerfulness;  and  made  them  sing 
To  their  own  dance;  now  negligently  rash 
He  throws  his  arm,  and  with  a  long-drawn  dash 
Elends  all  together;  then  distinctly  trips 
From  this  to  that;  then  quick  returning  skips 
And  snatches  this  again,  and  pauses  there. 
She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 
Meets  art  with  art ;  sometimes  as  if  in  doubt 
Not  perfect  yet,  and  fearing  to  be  out 
Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note, 
Through  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat, 
A  clear  un wrinkled  song;  then  doth  she  point  it 
With  tender  accents,  and  severely  joint  it 


LONGER  POEMS  77 

By  short  diminutives,  that  being  rear'd 

In  controverting  warbles  evenly  shar'd, 

With  her  sweet  self  she  wrangles.   He  amaz'd 

That  from  so  small  a  channel  should  be  rais'd 

The  torrent  of  a  voice,  whose  melody 

Could  melt  into  such  sweet  variety, 

Strains  higher  yet;  that  tickled  with  rare  art 

The  tatling  strings  (each  breathing  in  his  part) 

Most  kindly  do  fall  out;  the  grumbling  base 

In  surly  groans  disdains  the  treble's  grace ; 

The  high-perch' t  treble  chirps  at  this,  and  chides, 

Until  his  finger  (Moderator)  hides 

And  closes  the  sweet  quarrel,  rousing  all, 

Hoarse,  shrill  at  once;  as  when  the  trumpets  call 

Hot  Mars  to  th'  harvest  of  Death's  field,  and  woo 

Men's  hearts  into  their  hands;  this  lesson  too 

She  gives  him  back;  her  supple  breast  thrills  out 

Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 

Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill, 

And  folds  in  wav'd  notes  with  a  trembling  bill 

The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song; 

Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 

Of  short,  thick  sobs,  whose  thund'ring  volleys  float 

And  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 

In  panting  murmurs,  'still'd  out  of  her  breast, 

That  ever-bubbling  spring;  the  sugared  nest 

Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  does  lie 

Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody; 

Music's  best  seed-plot,  whence  in  ripen'd  airs 

A  golden-headed  harvest  fairly  rears 

His  honey-dropping  tops,  ploughed  by  her  breath, 

Which  there  reciprocally  laboureth 

In  that  sweet  soil;  it  seems  a  holy  choir 

Founded  to  th'  name  of  great  Apollo's  lyre, 

Whose  silver-roof  rings  with  the  sprightly  notes 

Of  sweet-lipp'd  angel-imps,  that  swill  their  throats 

In  cream  of  morning  Helicon,  and  then 

Preferre  soft-anthems  to  the  ears  of  men, 

To  woo  them  from  their  beds,  still  murmuring 

That  men  can  sleep  while  they  their  matins  sing: 

(Most  divine  service)  whose  so  early  lay, 

Prevents  the  eye-lids  of  the  blushing  Day ! 

There  you  might  hear  her  kindle  her  soft  voice, 


78          THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

In  the  close  murmur  of  a  sparkling  noise, 
And  lay  the  ground-work  of  her  hopeful  song, 
Still  keeping  in  the  forward  stream,  so  long, 
Till  a  sweet  whirl-wind  (striving  to  get  out) 
Heaves  her  soft  bosom,  wanders  round  about, 
And  makes  a  pretty  earthquake  in  her  breast, 
Till  the  fledg'd  notes  at  length  forsake  their  nest, 
Fluttering  wanton  shoals,  and  to  the  sky 
Wing'd  with  their  own  wild  echoes,  prattling  fly. 
She  opes  the  floodgate,  and  lets  loose  a  tide 
Of  streaming  sweetness,  which  in  state  doth  ride 
On  the  wav'd  back  of  every  swelling  strain, 
Rising  and  falling  in  a  pompous  train. 
And  while  she  thus  discharges  a  shrill  peal 
Of  flashing  airs ;  she  qualifies  their  zeal 
With  the  cool  epode  of  a  graver  note, 
Thus  high,  thus  low,  as  if  her  silver  throat 
Would  reach  the  brazen  voice  of  War's  hoarse  bird 
Her  little  soul  is  ravish'd:  and  so  pour'd 
Into  loose  ecstasies,  that  she  is  plac'd 
Above  herself,  Music's  Enthusiast. 

Shame  now  and  anger  mix'd  a  double  stain 
In  the  Musician's  face;  "  yet  once  again 
(Mistress)  I  come;  now  reach  a  strain,  my  lute. 
Above  her  mock,  or  be  for  ever  mute; 
Or  tune  a  song  of  victory  to  me, 
Or  to  thyself,  sing  thine  own  obsequie." 
So  said,  his  hands,  sprightly  as  fire,  he  flings 
And  with  a  quivering  coyness  tastes  the  strings. 
The  sweet-lip'd  sisters,  musically  frighted, 
Singing  their  fears,  are  fearfully  delighted, 
Trembling  as  when  Apollo's  golden  hairs 
Are  fann'd  and  frizzled,  in  the  wanton  airs 
Of  his  own  breath :  which  married  to  his  lyre 
Doth  tune  the  spheres,  and  make  Heaven's  self  look  higher. 
From  this  to  that,  from  that  to  this  he  flies, 
Feels  Music's  pulse  in  all  her  arteries; 
Caught  in  a  net  which  there  Apollo  spreads, 
His  fingers  struggle  with  the  vocal  threads. 
Following  those  little  rills,  he  sinks  into 
A  sea  of  Helicon;  his  hand  does  go 
Those  paths  of  sweetness  which  with  nectar  drop, 
Softer  than  that  which  pants  in  Hebe's  cup. 


LONGER  POEMS  79 

The  humorous  strings  expound  his  learned  touch. 

By  various  glosses ;  now  they  seem  to  grutch, 

And  murmur  in  a  buzzing  din,  then  jingle 

In  shrill-tongue' d  accents:  striving  to  be  single. 

Every  smooth  turn,  every  delicious  stroke 

Gives  life  to  some  new  grace;  thus  doth  h'  invoke 

Sweetness  by  all  her  names ;  thus,  bravely  thus 

(Fraught  with  a  fury  so  harmonious) 

The  lute's  light  genius  now  does  proudly  rise, 

Heav'd  on  the  surges  of  swoll'n  rapsodies, 

Whose  flourish  (meteor-like)  doth  curl  the  air 

With  flash  of  high-born  fancies :  here  and  there 

Dancing  in  lofty  measures,  and  anon 

Creeps  on  the  soft  touch  of  a  tender  tone; 

Whose  trembling  murmurs  melting  in  wild  airs 

Runs  to  and  fro,  complaining  his  sweet  cares, 

Because  those  precious  mysteries  that  dwell 

In  Music's  ravish'd  soul,  he  dares  not  tell, 

But  whisper  to  the  world:  thus  do  they  vary 

Each  string  his  note,  as  if  they  meant  to  carry 

Their  Master's  blest  soul  (snatch' d  out  at  his  ears 

By  a  strong  ecstasy)  through  all  the  spheres 

Of  Music's  heaven;  and  seat  it  there  on  high 

In  th'  empyraean  of  pure  harmony. 

At  length  (after  so  long,  so  loud  a  strife 

Of  all  the  strings,  still  breathing  the  best  life 

Of  blest  variety,  attending  on 

His  fingers'  fairest  revolution 

In  many  a  sweet  rise,  many  as  sweet  a  fall) 

A  full-mouth' d  diapason  swallows  all. 

This  done,  he  lists  what  she  would  say  to  this, 
And  she  (although  her  breath's  late  exercise 
Had  dealt  too  roughly  with  her  tender  throat), 
Yet  summons  all  her  sweet  powers  for  a  note. 
Alas !  in  vain !  for  while  (sweet  soul !)  she  tries 
To  measure  all  those  wild  diversities 
Of  chattering  strings,  by  the  small  size  of  one 
Poor  simple  voice,  rais'd  in  a  natural  tone; 
She  fails,  and  failing  grieves,  and  grieving  dies. 
She  dies;  and  leaves  her  life  the  Victor's  prize 
Falling  upon  his  lute :  O,  fit  to  have 
(That  liv'd  so  sweetly)  dead,  so  sweet  a  grave! 

RICHARD  CRASHAW. 


8o         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

FORTUNE  AND  VIRTUE 
i 

FORTUNE  smiles !  Cry  holiday : 

Dimples  on  her  cheek  do  dwell. 
Fortune  frowns !  cry  well-a-day: 

Her  love  is  Heaven,  her  hate  is  Hell. 
Since  Heaven  and  Hell  her  power  obey, 
When  she  smiles  cry  holiday ! 

Holiday!  with  joy  we  cry, 

And  bend,  and  bend,  and  merrily 

Sing  hymns  to  Fortune's  deity: 

Sing  hymns  to  Fortune's  deity. 

Let  us  sing,  merrily,  merrily,  merrily ! 

With  our  song  let  heaven  resound ! 

Fortune's  hands  our  heads  have  crown' d ! 
Let  us  sing,  merrily,  merrily,  merrily ! 

ii 

Virtue's  branches  wither,  Virtue  pines. 

O  pity,  pity,  and  alack  the  time ! 
Vice  doth  flourish,  Vice  in  glory  shines, 

Her  gilded  boughs  above  the  cedar  climb. 
Vice  hath  golden  cheeks,  O  pity,  pity ! 

She  in  every  land  doth  monarchise. 
Virtue  is  exiled  from  every  city, 

Virtue  is  a  fool,  Vice  only  wise. 

0  pity,  pity !  Virtue  weeping  dies. 
Vice  laughs  to  see  her  faint.   Alack  the  time ! 

This  sinks;  with  painted  wings  the  other  flies. 
Alack,  that  best  should  fall,  and  bad  should  climb ! 
O  pity ,  pity,  pity !  mourn,  not  sing ! 
Vice  is  a  saint,  Virtue  an  underling. 
Vice  doth  flourish,  Vice  in  glory  shines: 
Virtue's  branches  wither,  Virtue  pines. 

in 

All  loudly  cry,  Virtue  the  victory! 

Virtue  the  victory!  For  joy  of  this, 

Those  self-same  hymns  which  you  to  Fortune  sung 

Let  them  be  now  in  Virtue's  honour  rung: 


LONGER  POEMS  81 

Virtue  smiles.   Cry  holiday: 

Dimples  on  her  cheek  do  dwell. 
Virtue  frowns!  Cry  well-a-day: 

Her  love  is  Heaven,  her  hate  is  Hell. 
Since  Heaven  and  Hell  obey  her  power, 
Tremble  when  her  eyes  do  lower. 
Since  Heaven  and  Hell  her  power  obey, 
Where  she  smiles,  cry  holiday ! 
Holiday !  with  joy  we  cry, 
And  bend,  and  bend,  and  merrily 
Sing  hymns  to  Virtue's  deity: 
Sing  hymns  to  Virtue's  deity. 

THOMAS  DEKKER. 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    MY    BELOVED 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

AND  WHAT   HE   HATH   LEFT   US 

To  draw  no  envy,  SHAKESPEARE,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.   But  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 
For  seeliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance ; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 
These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 
Should  praise  a  matron;  what  could  hurt  her  more? 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin:  Soul  of  the  age! 
The  applause !  delight !  the  wonder  of  our  stage ! 
My  SHAKESPEARE  rise !   I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 


82  THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 

And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses : 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  would  not  seek 

For  names:  but  call  forth  thund'ring  ^Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread 

And  shake  a  stage:  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show, 

To  whom  all  Scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all;  thy  Art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion:  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil :  turn  the  same, 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame ; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 


LONGER  POEMS  83 

And  such  wert  thou !   Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed  lines  : 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandisht  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage, 

Or  influence,  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night, 

And  despairs  day  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

BEN  JONSON. 


ODE  ON  LEAVING  THE  GREAT  TOWN 

COME,  spur  away, 

I  have  no  patience  for  a  longer  stay, 
But  must  go  down 

And  leave  the  chargeable  noise  of  this  great  town: 
I  will  the  country  see 
Where  old  simplicity 

Tho'  hid  in  grey, 

Doth  look  more  gay 
Than  foppery  in  plush  and  scarlet  clad. 

Farewell  you  city  wits,  that  are 

Almost  at  civil  war; 
'Tis  time  that  I  grow  wise  when  all  the  world  grows  mad. 

More  of  my  days 

I  will  not  spend  to  gain  an  idiot's  praise: 
Or  to  make  sport 

For  some  slight  puny  of  the  inns  of  court. 
Then,  worthy  Stafford,  say, 
How  shall  we  spend  the  day? 
With  what  delights 
Shorten  the  nights 


4         THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF     • 

When  from  this  tumult  we  are  got  secure; 

Where  mirth  with  all  her  freedom  goes, 

Yet  shall  no  finger  lose 
Where  every  word  is  thought,  and  every  thought  is  pure. 

There,  from  the  tree 

We'll  cherries  pluck,  and  pick  the  strawberry; 
And  every  day 

Go  see  the  wholesome  country  girls  make  hay, 
Whose  brown  hath  lovelier  grace 
Than  any  painted  face 

That  I  do  know 

Hyde  Park  can  show; 
Where  I  had  rather  gain  a  kiss,  than  meet 

(Though  some  of  them,  in  greater  state, 

Might  court  my  love  with  plate) 
The  beauties  of  the  Cheape,  and  wives  of  Lombard  street. 

But  think  upon 

Some  other  pleasures,  these  to  me  are  none. 
Why  do  I  prate 

Of  women,  that  are  things  against  my  fate  ? 
I  never  mean  to  wed 
That  torture  to  my  bed . 

My  muse  is  she 

My  love  shall  be : 
Let  clowns  get  wealth  and  heirs ! — when  I  am  gone, 

And  the  great  bugbear,  grisly  death, 

Shall  take  this  idle  breath, 
If  I  a  poem  leave,  that  poem  is  my  son. 

Of  this  no  more — 

We'll  rather  taste  the  bright  Pomona's  store; 
No  fruit  shall  'scape 

Our  palates-,  from  the  damson  to  the  grape. 
Then  full,  we'll  seek  a  shade, 
And  hear  what  music's  made; 

How  Philomel 

Her  tale  doth  tell, 
And  how  the  other  birds  do  fill  the  quire, 

The  thrush  and  blackbird  lend  their  throats, 

Warbling  melodious  notes, 
We  will  all  sports  enjoy,  which  others  but  desire. 


LONGER  POEMS  85 

Ours  is  the  sky 

Where,  at  what  fowl  we  please,  our  hawks  shall  fly. 
Nor  will  we  spare 

To  hunt  the  crafty  fox,  or  tim'rous  hare; 
But  let  our  hounds  run  loose 
In  any  ground  they  choose : 

The  buck  shall  fall, 

The  stag  and  all. 
Our  pleasures  must  from  their  own  warrants  be. 

For  to  my  muse,  if  not  to  me, 

I  am  sure  all  game  is  free; 
Heav'n,  earth,  are  all  but  parts  of  her  great  royalty. 

And  when  we  mean 

To  taste  of  Bacchus'  blessings  now  and  then, 
And  drink  by  stealth 
A  cup  or  two  to  noble  Barkley's  health, 
I'll  take  my  pipe  and  try 
The  Phrygian  melody, 
Which  he  that  hears 
Lets  through  his  ears 
A  madness  to  distemper  all  the  brain. 
Then  I  another  pipe  will  take, 
And  Doric  music  make, 
To  civilise  with  graver  notes  our  wits  again. 

THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 


THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE  DEATH 
OF  HER  FAWN 

THE  wanton  troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men !  They  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.   Thou  ne'er  didst,  alive, 
Them  any  harm;  alas!  nor  could 
Thy  death  to  them  do  any  good. 
I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill, 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this;  nor  will: 
But,  if  my  simple  pray'rs  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 


86         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Thy  murder;  I  will  join  my  tears 
Rather  than  fail.   But  0  my  fears! 
It  cannot  die  so.   Heaven's  king 
Keeps  register  of  everything, 
And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain; 
Ev'n  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain; 
Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 
Though  they  should  wash  their  guilty  hands 
In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  part 
From  thine,  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 
Yet  could  they  not  be  clean;  their  stain 
Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain, 
There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Inconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 
One  morning,  I  remember  well, 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 
Gave  it  to  me:  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then — I'm  sure  I  do. 
Said  he:  "  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer." 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled: 
This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild, 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this;  and  very  well  content 
Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent; 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game:  it  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me.  How  could  I  less 
Than  love  it?   Oh,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me! 

Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did;  his  gifts  might  be 


LONGER  POEMS  87 

Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
For  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 

I  it  at  mine  own  fingers  nursed; 

And  as  it  grew  so  every  day, 

It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath !  and  oft 

I  blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft, 

And  white,  shall  I  say?  than  my  hand — 

Than  any  lady's  of  the  land ! 

It  was  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet. 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race; 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away, 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

To  be  a  little  wilderness; 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 

It  loved  only  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes; 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade, 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 

Until  its  lips  ev'n  seemed  to  bleed; 

And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill; 

D    746 


88         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

And  its  pure  virgin  lips  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

ANDREW  MARVELL. 


ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY 
Composed  1629 

i 

THIS  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

ii 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 
To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside,  and,  here  with  us  to  be, 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

in 

Say,  Heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain, 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 

Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  Sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons  bright  ? 

IV 

See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet ! 

Oh!  run;  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 


LONGER  POEMS  89 

And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  Angel  Quire., 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hallowed  fire. 


THE    HYMN 

I 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  of  him, 
Hath  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathise: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  Sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

ii 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

in 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace: 
She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

IV 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around; 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung; 


90         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

The  hooked  chariot  stood, 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 


But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began. 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

VI 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

VII 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  Sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should  need : 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 

VIII 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row;  •  . 

Full  little  thought  they  than 
That  the  mighty  Pan 


LONGER  POEMS  91 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below: 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 

IX 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 


Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat  the  Airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling  : 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Heaven  and  Earth  in  happier  union. 

XI 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  Night  arrayed ; 
The  helmed  cherubim 
And  sworded  seraphim 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born  Heir. 

XII 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made, 
But  when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set, 
And  the  well  balanced  World  on  hinges  hung, 


92         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

XIII 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres ! 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

XIV 

For,  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  Age  of  Gold; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die; 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

xv 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering; 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

XVI 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so; 
The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 
So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify: 
Yet  first,  to  those  ychained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep. 


LONGER  POEMS  93 

XVII 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake: 
The  aged  Earth,  agast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throne. 

XVIII 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins;  for  from  this  happy  day 
The  Old  Dragon  under  ground, 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 


XIX 

The  Oracles  are  dumb; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 


xx 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 


94         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

XXI 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint 
In  urns,  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  flamens  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat. 
While  each  peculiar  Power  forgoes  his  wonted  seat. 

XXII 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  God  of  Palestine ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine : 
The  Libyc  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn; 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammus  mourn. 

XXIII 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 
In  vain  with  cymbal's  ring  <%*£• 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

XXIV 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
Tramping  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings  loud ; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest; 

Nought  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his  shroud; 
In  vain,  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark, 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 


LONGER  POEMS  95 

XXV 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine  : 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

XXVI 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave, 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 

XXVII 

But  see !  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending: 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


THE  CHRONICLE 

MARGARITA  first  possess'd, 

If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 

Margarita,  first  of  all; 
But  when  awhile  the  wanton  maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  play'd, 

Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 


96         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catherine. 

Beauteous  Catherine  gave  place 
(ThoJ  loth  and  angry  she  to  part 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 

To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  to  this  hour  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en: 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 
And  still  new  favourites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Ann, 
Both  to  reign  at  once  began, 

Alternately  they  sway'd ; 
And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Ann  the  crown  did  wear, 

And  sometimes  both  I  obey'd. 

Another  Mary  then  arose, 
And  did  rigorous  laws  impose; 

A  mighty  tyrant  she ! 
Long,  alas,  should  I  have  been, 
Under  that  iron-scepter'd  queen, 

Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 
Twas  then  a  golden  time  for  me, 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fled : 
For  the  gracious  princess  died, 
In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour, 
Judith  held  the  sov'reign  pow'r, 

Wondrous  beautiful  her  face; 
But  so  weak  and  small  her  wit, 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susannah  took  her  place. 


LONGER  POEMS  97 

But  when  Isabella  came, 
Arm'd  with  a  resistless  flame, 

And  th'  artillery  of  her  eye ; 
While  she  proudly  march'd  about 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 

She  beat  out  Susan  by  the  bye. 

But  in  her  place  I  then  obey'd 
Black-ey'd  Bess,  her  viceroy  maid, 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy; 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possess'd 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast ; 

Bless  me  from  such  an  anarchy ! 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 

And  a  third  Mary  next  began ; 

Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Audria, 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 

And  then  a  long  et  csetera* 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate 

The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state. 

The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins, 
The  ribands,  jewels,  and  the  rings, 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things, 

That  make  up  all  their  magazines : 

If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts ; 

The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies, 
The  frowns,  the  smiles,  and  flatteries, 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries, 

Numberless,  nameless  mysteries ! 

And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid 
By  Machiavel,  the  waiting  maid ; 

I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I,  like  them,  should  tell 
All  change  of  weather  that  befel) 

Than  Holinshed  or  Stow. 


98         THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me ; 

An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  emperess  does  claim, 
Eleonora,  first  o'  the  name, 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

HARK  !  the  cock  crows,  and  yon  bright  star 

Tells  us  the  day  himself  s  not  far; 

And  see  where,  breaking  from  the  night, 

He  gilds  the  western  hills  with  light. 

With  him  old  Janus  doth  appear, 

Peeping  into  the  future  year, 

With  such  a  look  as  seems  to  say, 

The  prospect  is  not  good  that  way. 

Thus  do  we  rise  ill  sights  to  see, 

And  'gainst  ourselves  to  prophesy; 

When  the  prophetic  fear  of  things 

A  more  tormenting  mischief  brings, 

More  full  of  soul-tormenting  gall, 

Than  direct  mischiefs  can  befall. 

But  stay !  but  stay !  methinks  my  sight, 

Better  inform'd  by  clearer  light, 

Discerns  sereneness  in  that  brow, 

That  all  contracted  seem'd  but  now. 

His  revers'd  face  may  show  distaste, 

And  frown  upon  the  ills  are  past; 

But  that  which  this  way  looks  is  clear, 

And  smiles  upon  the  New-born  Year. 

He  looks  too  from  a  place  so  high, 

The  Year  lies  open  to  his  eye; 

And  all  the  moments  open  are 

To  the  exact  discoverer. 

Yet  more  and  more  he  smiles  upon 

The  happy  revolution. 

Why  should  we  then  suspect  or  fear 

The  influences  of  a  year, 

So  smiles  upon  us  the  first  morn, 


LONGER  POEMS  99 

And  speaks  us  good  so  soon  as  born? 

Plague  on 't !  the  last  was  ill  enough, 

This  cannot  but  make  better  proof; 

Or,  at  the  worst,  as  we  brush'd  through 

The  last,  why  so  we  may  this  too : 

And  then  the  next  in  reason  should 

Be  superexcellently  good : 

For  the  worst  ills  (we  daily  see) 

Have  no  more  perpetuity, 

Than  the  best  fortunes  that  do  fall ; 

Which  also  bring  us  wherewithal 

Longer  their  being  to  support, 

Than  those  do  of  the  other  sort : 

And  who  has  one  good  year  in  three, 

And  yet  repines  at  destiny, 

Appears  ungrateful  in  the  case, 

And  merits  not  the  good  he  has. 

Then  let  us  welcome  the  New  Guest 

With  lusty  brimmers  of  the  best  j 

Mirth  always  should  Good  Fortune  meet, 

And  render  e'en  Disaster  sweet: 

And  though  the  Princess  turn  her  back, 

Let  us  but  line  ourselves  with  sack, 

We  better  shall  by  far  hold  out, 

Till  the  next  Year  she  face  about. 

CHARLES  COTTON. 


THE  WORLD 

I  SAW  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light. 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres, 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;  In  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 

The  doting  Lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  slights,1 

Wit's  sour2  delights; 

1  Sleights,  tricks.  *  Perhaps,  unsatisfying. 


ioo       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

With  gloves  and  knots/  the  silly  snares  of  pleasure; 

Yet  his  dear  treasure 

All  scatter'd  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 
Upon  a  flower. 

The  darksome  Statesman 2  hung  with  weights  and  woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog,  moved  there  so  slow, 

He  did  not  stay,  nor  go; 
Condemning  thoughts — like  sad  eclipses — scowl 

Upon  his  soul, 
And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout; 
Yet  digg'd  the  mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be  found, 

Work'd  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey;  but  One  did  see 

That  policy; 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him ;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies ; 
It  rain'd  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free. 

The  fearful  Miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sate  pining  all  his  life  there;  did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust; 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but  lives 

In  fear  of  thieves : 
Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  himself, 

And  hugg'd  each  one  his  pelf. 
The  down-right  Epicure  placed  heaven  in  sense, 

And  scorn'd  pretence; 
While  others,  slipt  into  a  wide  excess, 

Said  little  less; 
The  weaker  sort,  slight,  trivial  wares  enslave, 

Who  think  them  brave;3 
And  poor,  despised  Truth  sat  counting  by 

Their  victory. 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and  sing, 
And  sing,  and  weep,  soar'd  up  into  the  ring; 
But  most  would  use  no  wing. 

1  Ribbons. 

*  Pym's  career,  with  O.  Cromwell's  by  poetic  insight,  is  here  (1650) 
unquestionably  photographed. 
8  Magnificent. 


LONGER  POEMS  lox 

O  fools — said  I — thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light ! 
To  live  in  grots,  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day 

Because  it  shews  the  way: — 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  GOD; 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  Sun,  and  be 

More  bright  than  he ! 
But  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whisper'd  thus, — 
This  ring  the  Bride-groom  did  for  none  provide, 

But  for  His  Bride. 

HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


HOME 

WHAT  is  House  and  what  is  Home, 

Where  with  freedom  thou  hast  room, 

And  may'st  to  all  tyrants  say, 

This  you  cannot  take  away? 

'Tis  no  thing  with  doors  and  walls, 

Which  at  every  earthquake  falls ; 

No  fair  towers,  whose  princely  fashion 

Is  but  Plunder's  invitation; 

No  stout  marble  structure,  where 

Walls  Eternity  do  dare; 

No  brass  gates,  no  bars  of  steel, 

Tho'  Time's  teeth  they  scorn  to  feel: 

Brass  is  not  so  bold  as  Pride, 

If  on  Power's  wings  it  ride; 

Marble's  not  so  hard  as  Spite 

Arm'd  with  lawless  Strength  and  Might. 

Right  and  just  Possession,  be 

Potent  names,  when  Laws  stand  free: 

But  if  once  that  rampart  fall, 

Stoutest  thieves  inherit  all: 

To  be  rich  and  weak's  a  sure 

And  sufficient  forfeiture. 

Seek  no  more  abroad,  say  I, 
House  and  Home,  but  turn  thine  eye 


102.      THE.  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

*    '       Inward,  and  observe  thy  breast; 
There  alone  dwells  solid  Rest. 
That's  a  close  immured  tower 
Which  can  mock  all  hostile  power. 
To  thyself  a  tenant  be, 
And  inhabit  safe  and  free. 
Say  not  that  this  House  is  small, 
Girt  up  in  a  narrow  wall : 
In  a  cleanly  sober  mind 
Heaven  itself  full  room  doth  find 
Th'  Infinite  CREATOR  can 
Dwell  in  it ;  and  may  not  Man  ? 
Here  content  make  thy  abode 
With  thyself  and  with  thy  GOD. 
Here  in  this  sweet  privacy 
May'st  thou  with  thyself  agree. 
And  keep  House  in  peace,  tho'  all 
Th'  Universe's  fabric  fall. 
No  disaster  can  distress  thee, 
Nor  no  Fury  dispossess  thee : 
Let  all  war  and  plunder  come, 
Still  may'st  thou  dwell  safe  at  Home. 

Home  is  everywhere  to  thee, 
Who  can'st  thine  own  dwelling  be; 
Yea,  tho'  ruthless  Death  assail  thee. 
Still  thy  lodging  will  not  fail  thee; 
Still  thy  Soul's  thine  own;  and  she 
To  an  House  removed  shall  be; 
An  eternal  House  above, 
Wall'd,  and  roof'd,  and  paved  with  Love. 
There  shall  these  mud-walls  of  thine, 
Gallantly  repair 'd,  out-shine 
Mortal  Stars;— No  Stars  shall  be 
In  that  Heaven  but  such  as  Thee. 

JOSEPH  BEAUMONT. 


LONGER  POEMS  103 


THE  HERMIT 

FAR  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  Hermit  grew, 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well, 
Remote  from  man,  with  God  he  pass'd  his  days, 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seem'd  Heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose — 
That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey; 
This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence's  sway: 
His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast, 
And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost. 
So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast. 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colours  glow; 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 
Swift  rushing  circles  curl  on  every  side, 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  sun : 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains  report  it  right 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly  dew), 
He  quits  his  cell :  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 
And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before, 
Then  with  the  sun  a  rising  journey  went, 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass, 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass  : 
But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm'd  the  day, 
A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  wav'd  his  hair; 
Then  near  approaching,  "  Father,  hail!  "  he  cried; 
And  "  Hail,  my  son!  "  the  reverend  sire  replied: 
Words  follow' d  words,  from  question  answer  flow'd, 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceiv'd  the  road; 
Till  each  with  other  pleas'd,  and  loth  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 


104       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun;  the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  grey; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose: 
When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose: 
There,  by  the  moon,  thro'  ranks  of  trees  they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crown'd  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 
It  chanc'd  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger's  home; 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Prov'd  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive:  the  liveried  servants  wait; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then,  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown, 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play; 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighbouring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 
Uprise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call; 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  grac'd, 
Which  the  kind  master  forc'd  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then,  pleas'd  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go : 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe : 
His  cup  was  vanish'd;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin 'd  the  glittering  prize. 
As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder'd  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear; 
So  seem'd  the  sire,  when  far  upon  the  road 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  stopp'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trembling  heart, 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask,  to  part : 
Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds, 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds ; 
A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain, 


LONGER  POEMS  105 

And  beasts  tcTcovert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighbouring  seat  : 
'Twas  built  with  turrets  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimprov'd  around  ; 
Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 
Unkind  and  griping,  caus'd  a  desert  there. 
As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew, 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew; 
The  nimble  lightning  mix'd  with  showers  began, 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunder  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain, 
Driv'n  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 
At  length  some  pity  warm'd  the  master's  breast 
('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  receiv'd  a  guest:) 
Slow  creeking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair; 
One  frugal  faggot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
And  nature's  fervor  thro'  their  limbs  recals : 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort  with  meagre  wine, 
(Each  hardly  granted)  serv'd  them  both  to  dine; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appear' d  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  the  pondering  Hermit  view'd, 
In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude; 
And  why  should  such  (within  himself  he  cried) 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside? 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  take  place 
In  every  setting  feature  of  his  face, 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup  the  generous  landlord  own'd  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul ! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly; 
The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky; 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 
And  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day: 
The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  Pilgrim's  bosom  wrought 
With  all  the  travail  of  uncertain  thought; 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear; 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness  here : 


io6       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky, 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  lie; 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh. 
The  soil  improv'd  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great, 
It  seem'd  to  speak  its  master's  turn  of  mind, 
Content,  and  not  for  praise  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet. 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestow'd  with  modest  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies : 

"  Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging  heart, 
To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part; 
From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk'd  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed; 
When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warn'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 
At  length  the  world,  renew' d  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil;  the  dappled  morn  arose; 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept, 
Near  the  clos'd  cradle,  where  an  infant  slept 
And  writh'd  his  neck;  the  landlord's  little  pride, 
O  strange  return !  grew  black,  and  gasp'd,  and  died. 
Horror  of  horrors !  what !  his  only  son ! 
How  look'd  our  Hermit  when  the  fact  was  done ! 
Not  hell,  tho'  hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart.* 

Confus'd  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 
He  flies;  but,  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed. 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues;   the  country  lay 
Perplex 'd  with  roads;  a  servant  show'd  the  way: 
A  river  cross'd  the  path;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find;  the  servant  trod  before: 
Long  arms  of  oak  an  open  bridge  supplied, 
And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  branches  glide. 
The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide  and  thrust  him  in: 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head  : 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 


LONGER  POEMS  107 

Wild  flashing  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes; 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
"  Detested  wretch!  " — But  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer  man : 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet : 
His  robe  turn'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his  feet; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  thro'  purpled  air; 
And  wings,  whose  colours  glitter'd  on  the  day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display, 
The  form  etherial  bursts  upon  his  sight, 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Tho'  loud  at  first  the  Pilgrim's  passion  grew, 
Sudden  he  gaz'd,  and  wist  not  what  to  do; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish 'd  as  he  spoke:) 

"  Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown. 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne: 
These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find, 
And  force  an  angel  down  to  calm  thy  mind ; 
For  this  commission'd,  I  forsook  the  sky — 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel ! — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

"  Then  know  the  truth  of  government  Divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

"  The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made, 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 
Its  sacred  majesty  thro'  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends; 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 
The  Power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high ; 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will. 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

"  What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  surprise, 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes? 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  the  Almighty  just; 
And,  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust. 

"  The  great,  vain  man,  who  far'd  on  costly  food, 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good ; 
Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
And  f orc'd  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine ; 
Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 


io8       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

"  The  mean  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 
Ne'er  mov'd  in  pity  to  the  wandering  poor, 
With  him  I  left  the  cup  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 
With  heaving  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head ; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 
And,  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  below. 

"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 
But  now  the  child  half-wean'd  his  heart  from  God; 
(Child  of  his  age)  for  him  he  liv'd  in  pain, 
And  measur'd  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run! 
But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 
To  all  but  thee  in  fits  he  seem'd  to  go ; 
And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow. 
The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 

"  But  how  had  all  his  fortunes  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back ! 
This  night  his  treasur'd  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 
Thus  heaven  instructs  thy  mind:  this  trial  o'er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew; 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  look'd  Elisha,  when  to  mount  on  high, 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky: 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  the  view; 
The  prophet  gaz'd,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  Hermit  here  a  prayer  begun: 
Lord  !  as  in  heaven }  on  earth  thy  will  be  done. 
Then,  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  pass'd  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 

THOMAS  PARNELL. 


LONGER  POEMS  109 


PROTOGENES  AND  APELLES 

WHEN  poets  wrote  and  painters  drew, 

As  nature  pointed  out  the  view; 

Ere  Gothic  forms  were  known  in  Greece, 

To  spoil  the  well-proportioned  piece; 

And  in  our  verse  ere  monkish  rhymes 

Had  jangled  their  fantastic  chimes; 

Ere  on  the  flowery  lands  of  Rhodes, 

Those  knights  had  fixed  their  dull  abodes, 

Who  knew  not  much  to  paint  or  write, 

Nor  cared  to  pray,  nor  dared  to  fight: 

Protogenes,  historians  note, 

Lived  there,  a  burgess,  scot  and  lot; 

And  as  old  Pliny's  writings  shew, 

Apelles  did  the  same  at  Co. 

Agreed  these  points  of  time  and  place, 

Proceed  we  in  the  present  case. 

Piqued  by  Protogenes's  fame, 

From  Co  to  Rhodes  Apelles  came, 

To  see  a  rival  and  a  friend, 

Prepared  to  censure,  or  commend; 

Here  to  absolve,  and  there  object, 

As  art  with  candour  might  direct. 

He  sails — he  lands-— he  comes — he  rings; 

His  servants  follow  with  the  things: 

Appears  the  governante  of  th'  house, 

For  such  in  Greece  were  much  in  use 

If  young  or  handsome,  yea  or  no, 

Concerns  not  me  or  thee  to  know. 

"  Does  Squire  Protogenes  live  here?  " 
"  Yes,  sir,"  says  she,  with  gracious  air 
And  curtsy  low;  "  but  just  called  out 
By  lords  peculiarly  devout, 
Who  came  on  purpose,  sir,  to  borrow 
Our  Venus  for  the  feast  to-morrow, 
To  grace  the  church;  'tis  Venus'  day: 
I  hope,  sir,  you  intend  to  stay, 
To  see  our  Venus?  'tis  the  piece 
The  most  renowned  throughout  all  Greece; 
So  like  th'  original,  they  say: 


no       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

But  I  have  no  great  skill  that  way. 
But,  sir,  at  six — 'tis  now  past  three — 
Dromo  must  make  my  master's  tea: 
At  six,  sir,  if  you  please  to  come, 
You'll  find  my  master,  sir,  at  home." 

"  Tea,"  says  a  critic  big  with  laughter, 
"  Was  found  some  twenty  ages  after; 
Authors,  before  they  write,  should  read." 
'Tis  very  true;  but  we'll  proceed. 

"  And,  sir,  at  present  would  you  please 
To  leave  your  name." — "  Fair  maiden,  yes. 
Reach  me  that  board."   No  sooner  spoke 
But  done.  With  one  judicious  stroke, 
On  the  plain  ground  Apelles  drew 
A  circle  regularly  true : 
"  And  will  you  please,  sweetheart,"  said  he, 
"  To  show  your  master  this  from  me? 
By  it  he  presently  will  know 
How  painters  write  their  names  at  Co." 
He  gave  the  panel  to  the  maid. 
Smiling  and  curtsying,  "  Sir,"  she  said, 
"  I  shall  not  fail  to  tell  my  master: 
And,  sir,  for  fear  of  all  disaster, 
I'll  keep  it  my  own  self:  safe  bind, 
Says  the  old  proverb,  and  safe  find. 
So,  sir,  as  sure  as  key  or  lock — 
Your  servant,  sir — at  six  o'clock." 

Again  at  six  Apelles  came, 
Found  the  same  prating  civil  dame. 
"  Sir,  that  my  master  has  been  here, 
Will  by  the  board  itself  appear. 
If  from  the  perfect  line  be  found 
He  has  presumed  to  swell  the  round, 
Or  colours  on  the  draught  to  lay, 
'  'Tis  thus  ' — he  ordered  me  to  say — 
'  Thus  write  the  painters  of  this  isle; 
Let  those  of  Co  remark  the  style/  " 

She  said,  and  to  his  hand  restored 
The  rival  pledge,  the  missive  board. 
Upon  the  happy  line  were  laid 
Such  obvious  light  and  easy  shade, 
The  Paris'  apple  stood  confessed, 
Or  Leda's  egg,  or  Chloe's  breast. 


LONGER  POEMS  in 

Apelles  viewed  the  finished  piece; 

"  And  live/'  said  he,  "  the  arts  of  Greece! 

Howe'er  Protogenes  and  I 

May  in  our  rival  talents  vie; 

Howe'er  our  works  may  have  expressed 

Who  truest  drew,  or  coloured  best, 

When  he  beheld  my  flowing  line, 

He  found  at  least  I  could  design  : 

And  from  his  artful  round,  I  grant, 

That  he  with  perfect  skill  can  paint/' 

The  dullest  genius  cannot  fail 
To  find  the  moral  of  my  tale; 
That  the  distinguished  part  of  men, 
With  compass,  pencil,  sword,  or  pen, 
Should  in  life's  visit  leave  their  name 
In  characters  which  may  proclaim 
That  they  with  ardour  strove  to  raise 
At  once  their  arts  and  country's  praise; 
And  in  their  working,  took  great  care 
That  all  was  full,  and  round,  and  fair. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON 
[IMITATED  FROM  THE  EIGHTH  BOOK  OF  OVID] 

IN  ancient  times,  as  story  tells, 
The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people's  hospitality. 

It  happened  on  a  winter  night — 
As  authors  of  the  legend  write — 
Two  brother-hermits,  saints  by  trade, 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tattered  habits,  went 
To  a  small  village  down  in  Kent ; 
Where,  in  the  strollers'  canting  strain, 
They  begged  from  door  to  door  in  vain; 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win, 
But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 


ii2       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Our  wandering  saints  in  woful  state, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate, 
Having  through  all  the  village  past, 
To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last, 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  yeoman, 
Called  in  the  neighbourhood  Philemon, 
Who  kindly  did  the  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night. 
And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  Goody  Baucis  mend  the  fire, 
While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook, 
And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried; 
Then  stepped  aside  to  fetch  them  drink, 
Filled  a  large  jug  up  to  the  brink, 
And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round; 
Yet — what  was  wonderful — they  found 
'Twas  still  replenished  to  the  top, 
As  if  they  ne'er  had  touched  a  drop. 
The  good  old  couple  were  amazed, 
And  often  on  each  other  gazed : 
For  both  were  frighted  to  the  heart, 
And  just  began  to  cry:  "  What  art?  " 
Then  softly  turned  aside  to  view 
Whether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 
The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on  % 
Told  them  their  calling  and  their  errant : 
"  Good  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid, 
We  are  but  saints,"  the  hermits  said; 
"  No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  yours; 
But,  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boors, 
Not  fit  to  live  on  Christian  ground, 
They  and  their  houses  shall  be  drowned : 
While  you  shall  see  your  cottage  rise, 
And  grow  a  church  before  your  eyes." 

They  scarce  had  spoke,  when  fair  and  soft, 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter, 
The  heavy  wall  climbed  slowly  after. 

The  chimney  widened,  and  grew  higher, 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist, 


LONGER  POEMS  113 

And  there  stood  fastened  to  a  joist; 
But  with  the  up-side  down,  to  shew 
Its  inclination  for  below : 
In  vain;  for  some  superior  force, 
Applied  at  bottom,  stops  its  course; 
Doomed  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
Tis  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 
A  sudden  alteration  feels, 
Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels : 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more, 
The  number  made  the  motion  slower; 
The  flier,  which,  thought  't  had  leaden  feet, 
Turned  round  so  quick,  you  scarce  could  see 't. 
Now,  slackened  by  some  secret  power, 
Can  hardly  move  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied, 
Had  never  left  each  other's  side : 
The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown, 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone  ; 
But,  up  against  the  steeple  reared, 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered: 
And  still  its  love  to  household  cares, 
By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon,  declares ; 
Warning  the  cook-maid  not  to  burn 
That  roast  meat,  which  it  cannot  turn. 

The  groaning  chair  was  seen  to  crawl, 
Like  a  huge  snail,  half  up  the  wallj 
There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view, 
And,  with  small-change,  a  pulpit  grew. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show, 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed, 
Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 

The  ballads  pasted  on  the  wall, 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  Robin  Hood, 
The  Little  Children  in  the  Wood, 
Now  seemed  to  look  abundance  better, 
Improved  in  picture,  size,  and  letter; 
And  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 


H4       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load ; 
Such  as  our  grandsires  wont  to  use, 
Was  metamorphosed  into  pews ; 
Which  still  their  ancient  nature  keep, 
By  lodging  folk  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these, 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees ; 
The  hermits  then  desire  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while, 
Returned  them  thanks  in  homely  style ; 
Then  said:  "  My  house  is  grown  so  fine, 
Methinks  I  still  would  call  it  mine : 
I'm  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease; 
Make  me  the  parson,  if  you  please." 
He  spoke,  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier's  coat  fall  down  his  heels : 
He  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe, 
About  each  arm  a  pudding  sleeve : 
His  waistcoat  to  a  cassock  grew, 
And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue; 
But,  being  old,  continued  just 
As  threadbare  and  as  full  of  dust. 
His  talk  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues ; 
Could  smoke  his  pipe  and  read  the  news : 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamped  in  the  preface  and  the  text : 
At  christenings  well  could  act  his  part, 
And  had  the  service  all  by  heart : 
Wished  women  might  have  children  fast, 
And  thought  whose  sow  had  farrowed  last : 
Against  dissenters  would  repine, 
And  stood  up  firm  for  right  divine : 
Found  his  head  filled  with  many  a  system, 
But  classic  authors — he  ne'er  missed  them. 

Thus  having  furbished  up  a  parson, 
Dame  Baucis  next  they  played  their  farce  on : 
Instead  of  homespun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners,  edged  with  Colberteen: 
Her  petticoat,  transformed  apace, 
Became  black  satin  flounced  with  lace. 
Plain  Goody  would  no  longer  down; 


LONGER  POEMS  115 

'Twas  Madam,  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  surprise, 
And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes : 
Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim; 
And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus,  happy  in  their  change  of  life, 
Were  several  years  the  man  and  wife: 
When  on  a  day,  which  proved  their  last, 
Discoursing  o'er  old  stories  past, 
They  went  by  chance,  amidst  their  talk, 
To  the  churchyard  to  fetch  a  walk; 
When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out: 
"  My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout!  " 
"  Sprout,"  quoth  the  man,  "  what's  this  you  tell  us? 
I  hope  you  don't  believe  me  jealous  ? 
But,  yet,  methinks,  I  feel  it  true; 

And  really  yours  is  budding  too 

Nay Now  I  cannot  stir  my  foot ; 

It  feels  as  if  'twere  taking  root/' 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse; 
In  short,  they  both  were  turned  to  yews. 

Old  Goodman  Dobson,  of  the  green, 
Remembers  he  the  trees  hath  seen ; 
He'll  talk  of  them  from  noon  to  night, 
And  goes  with  folks  to  shew  the  sight ; 
On  Sundays,  after  evening-prayer, 
He  gathers  all  the  parish  there; 
Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew, 
Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon  grew. 
'Till  once  a  parson  of  our  town. 
To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down; 
At  which,  'tis  hard  to  be  believed, 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  grieved ; 
Grew  scrubby,  died  a-top,  was  stunted; 
So  the  next  parson  stubbed  and  burnt  it. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


n6       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 


THE   SECOND   EPISTLE   OF  THE   ESSAY   ON  MAN 

ARGUMENT. — I.  The  business  of  man  not  to  pry  into  God,  but  to  study 
himself.  His  middle  nature;  his  powers  and  frailties,  ver.  1-19.  The 
limits  of  his  capacity,  ver.  19,  etc. — II.  The  two  principles  of  man, 
self-love  and  reason,  both  necessary,  ver.  53,  etc.  Self-love  the  stronger, 
and  why,  ver.  67,  etc.  Their  end  the  same,  ver.  81,  etc. — III.  The 
passions,  and  their  use,  ver.  93-130.  The  predominant  passion,  and  its 
force,  ver.  132-160.  Its  necessity,  in  directing  men  to  different  purposes, 
ver.  165,  etc.  Its  providential  use,  in  fixing  our  principle,  and  ascertain- 
ing our  virtues,  ver.  177. — IV.  Virtue  and  vice  joined  in  our  mixed 
nature;  the  limits  near,  yet  the  things  separate  and  evident:  What 
is  the  office  of  reason,  ver.  202-216. — V.  How  odious  vice  in  itself, 
and  how  we  deceive  ourselves  into  it,  ver.  217. — VI.  That,  however, 
the  ends  of  Providence  and  general  good  are  answered  in  our  passions 
and  imperfections,  ver.  238,  etc.  How  usefully  these  are  distributed 
to  all  orders  of  men,  ver.  241.  How  useful  they  are  to  society,  ver.  251. 
And  to  individuals,  ver.  263.  In  every  state,  and  every  age  of  life, 
ver.  273,  etc. 

I.   KNOW  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan; 

The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 

Placed  on  this  isthmus  of  a  middle  state, 

A  being  darkly  wise,  and  rudely  great  : 

With  too  much  knowledge  for  the  sceptic  side, 

With  too  much  weakness  for  the  stoic's  pride, 

He  hangs  between;  in  doubt  to  act,  or  rest; 

In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  god,  or  beast ; 

In  doubt  his  mind  or  body  to  prefer; 

Born  but  to  die,  and  reasoning  but  to  err; 

Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such, 

Whether  he  thinks  too  little,  or  too  much: 

Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  confused; 

Still  by  himself  abused,  or  disabused ; 

Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall; 

Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to  all; 

Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled: 

The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world ! 

Go,  wondrous  creature !  mount  where  science  guides, 
Go,  measure  earth,  weigh  air,  and  state  the  tides ; 
Instruct  the  planets  in  what  orbs  to  run, 
Correct  old  time,  and  regulate  the  sun; 
Go,  soar  with  Plato  to  the  empyreal  sphere, 
To  the  first  good,  first  perfect,  and  first  fair; 
Or  tread  the  mazy  round  his  followers  trod, 
And  quitting  sense  call  imitating  God;  x 

1  The  new  platonics  taught  by  Ammonius  Saccas  towards  the  end  of 
the  second  century. 


LONGER  POEMS  117 

As  eastern  priests  in  giddy  circles  run, 
And  turn  their  heads  to  imitate  the  sun. 
Go,  teach  eternal  wisdom  how  to  rule — 
Then  drop  into  thyself,  and  be  a  fool ! 

Superior  beings,  when  of  late  they  saw 
A  mortal  man  unfold  all  nature's  law, 
Admired  such  wisdom  in  an  earthly  shape, 
And  showed  a  Newton  as  we  show  an  ape. 

Could  he,  whose  rules  the  rapid  comet  bind, 
Describe  or  fix  one  movement  of  his  mind  ? 
Who  saw  its  fires  here  rise,  and  there  descend, 
Explain  his  own  beginning,  or  his  end  ? 
Alas,  what  wonder !  man's  superior  part 
Unchecked  may  rise,  and  climb  from  art  to  art ; 
But  when  his  own  great  work  is  but  begun, 
What  reason  weaves,  by  passion  is  undone. 

Trace  science  then,  with  modesty  thy  guide ; 
First  strip  off  all  her  equipage  of  pride ; 
Deduct  what  is  but  vanity,  or  dress 
Or  learning's  luxury,  or  idleness ; 
Or  tricks  to  show  the  stretch  of  human  brain, 
Mere  curious  pleasure,  or  ingenious  pain; 
Expunge  the  whole,  or  lop  the  excrescent  parts 
Of  all  our  vices  have  created  arts ; 
Then  see  how  little  the  remaining  sum, 
Which  served  the  past,  and  must  the  times  to  come ! 

II.  Two  principles  in  human  nature  reign; 
Self-love,  to  urge,  and  reason,  to  restrain; 
Nor  this  a  good,  nor  that  a  bad  we  call, 
Each  works  its  end,  to  move  or  govern  all: 
And  to  their  proper  operation  still, 
Ascribe  all  good ;  to  their  improper,  ill. 

Self-love,  the  spring  of  motion,  acts  1  the  soul ; 
Reason's  comparing  balance  rules  the  whole. 
Man,  but  for  that,  no  action  could  attend, 
And  but  for  this,  were  active  to  no  end : 
Fixed  like  a  plant  on  his  peculiar  spot, 
To  draw  nutrition,  propagate,  and  rot ; 
Or,  meteor-like,  flame  lawless  through  the  void, 
Destroying  others,  by  himself  destroyed. 

Most  strength  the  moving  principle  requires; 
Active  its  task,  it  prompts,  impels,  inspires. 
1  Used  for  "  actuates." 


n8       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Sedate  and  quiet  the  comparing  lies, 
Formed  but  to  check,  deliberate,  and  advise. 
Self-love  still  stronger,  as  its  object's  nigh; 
Reason's  at  distance,  and  in  prospect  lie : 
That  sees  immediate  good  by  present  sense; 
Reason,  the  future  and  the  consequence. 
Thicker  than  arguments,  temptations  throng, 
At  best  more  watchful  this,  but  that  more  strong. 
The  action  of  the  stronger  to  suspend, 
Reason  still  use,  to  reason  still  attend. 
Attention,  habit  and  experience  gains ; 
Each  strengthens  reason,  and  self-love  restrains. 

Let  subtle  schoolmen  teach  these  friends  to  fight, 
More  studious  to  divide  than  to  unite; 
And  grace  and  virtue,  sense  and  reason  split, 
With  all  the  rash  dexterity  of  wit. 
Wits,  just  like  fools,  at  war  about  a  name, 
Have  full  as  oft  no  meaning,  or  the  same. 
Self-love  and  reason  to  one  end  aspire, 
Pain  their  aversion,  pleasure  their  desire; 
But  greedy  that,  its  object  would  devour, 
This  taste  the  honey,  and  not  wound  the  flow'r; 
Pleasure,  or  wrong  or  rightly  understood, 
Our  greatest  evil,  or  our  greatest  good. 

III.  Modes  of  self-love  the  passions  we  may  call; 
'Tis  real  good,  or  seeming,  moves  them  all : 
But  since  not  ev'ry  good  we  can  divide, 
And  reason  bids  us  for  our  own  provide; 
Passions,  though  selfish,  if  their  means  be  fair, 
List  under  reason,  and  deserve  her  care; 
Those,  that  imparted,  court  a  nobler  aim, 
Exalt  their  kind,  and  take  some  virtue's  name. 

In  lazy  apathy  let  stoics  boast 
Their  virtue  fixed;  'tis  fixed  as  in  a  frost; 
Contracted  all,  retiring  to  the  breast ; 
But  strength  of  mind  is  exercise,  not  rest : 
The  rising  tempest  puts  in  act  the  soul, 
Parts  it  may  ravage,  but  preserves  the  whole. 
On  life's  vast  ocean  diversely  we  sail, 
Reason  the  card,1  but  passion  is  the  gale; 
Nor  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find, 

1The  "card"  on  which  the  points  of  the  mariners'  compass  are 
marked,  signifies  of  course  the  compass  itself. 


LONGER  POEMS  119 

He  mounts  the  storm,  and  walks  upon  the  wind. 

Passions,  like  elements,  though  born  to  fight, 
Yet,  mixed  and  softened,  in  His  work  unite : 
These  'tis  enough  to  temper  and  employ; 
But  what  composes  man,  can  man  destroy  ? 
Suffice  that  reason  keep  to  nature's  road, 
Subject,  compound  them,  follow  her  and  God. 
Love,  hope,  and  joy,  fair  pleasure's  smiling  train, 
Hate,  fear,  and  grief,  the  family  of  pain, 
These  mixed  with  art,  and  to  due  bounds  confined, 
Make  and  maintain  the  balance  of  the  mind  : 
The  lights  and  shades,  whose  well-accorded  strife 
Gives  all  the  strength  and  colour  of  our  life. 

Pleasures  are  ever  in  our  hands  or  eyes ; 
And  when  in  act  they  cease,  in  prospect  rise ; 
Present  to  grasp,  and  future  still  to  find, 
The  whole  employ  of  body  and  of  mind. 
All  spread  their  charms,  but  charm  not  all  alike ; 
On  diff'rent  senses  diff'rent  objects  strike; 
Hence  diff'rent  passions  more  or  less  inflame, 
As  strong  or  weak  the  organs  of  the  frame ; 
And  hence  one  master  passion  in  the  breast, 
Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  up  the  rest. 

As  man,  perhaps,  the  moment  of  his  breath, 
Receives  the  lurking  principle  of  death; 
The  young  disease,  that  must  subdue  at  length, 
Grows  with  his  growth,  and  strengthens  with  his  strength : 
So,  cast  and  mingled  with  his  very  frame, 
The  mind's  disease,  its  ruling  passion  came ; 
Each  vital  humour  which  should  feel  the  whole, 
Soon  flows  to  this,  in  body  and  in  soul : 
Whatever  warms  the  heart,  or  fills  the  head, 
As  the  mind  opens,  and  its  functions  spread, 
Imagination  plies  her  dang'rous  art, 
And  pours  it  all  upon  the  peccant  part. 

Nature  its  mother,  habit  is  its  nurse ; 
Wit,  spirit,  faculties,  but  make  it  worse ; 
Reason  itself  but  gives  it  edge  and  power ; 
As  heaven's  blest  beam  turns  vinegar  more  sour. 

We,  wretched  subjects,  though  to  lawful  sway, 
In  this  weak  queen  some  fav'rite  still  obey: 
Ah !  if  she  lend  not  arms,  as  well  as  rules, 
What  can  she  more  than  tell  us  we  are  fools  ? 

E  746 


120       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Teach  us  to  mourn  our  nature,  not  to  mend, 
A  sharp  accuser,  but  a  helpless  friend ! 
Or  from  a  judge  turn  pleader,  to  persuade 
The  choice  we  make,  or  justify  it  made : 
Proud  of  an  easy  conquest  all  along, 
She  but  removes  weak  passions  for  the  strong : 
So,  when  small  humours  gather  to  a  gout, 
The  doctor  fancies  he  has  driven  them  out. 

Yes,  nature's  road  must  ever  be  preferred  : 
Reason  is  here  no  guide,  but  still  a  guard : 
'Tis  hers  to  rectify,  not  overthrow, 
And  treat  this  passion  more  as  friend  than  foe  : 
A  mightier  pow'r  the  strong  direction  sends, 
And  sev'ral  men  impels  to  sev'ral  ends : 
Like  varying  winds,  by  other  passions  tost, 
This  drives  them  constant  to  a  certain  coast. 
Let  power  or  knowledge,  gold  or  glory,  please, 
Or  (oft  more  strong  than  all)  the  love  of  ease; 
Through  life  'tis  followed,  even  at  life's  expense; 
The  merchant's  toil,  the  sage's  indolence, 
The  monk's  humility,  the  hero's  pride, 
All,  all  alike,  find  reason  on  their  side. 

The  Eternal  Art  educing  good  from  ill, 
Grafts  on  this  passion  our  best  principle : 
Tis  thus  the  mercury  of  man  is  fixed, 
Strong  grows  the  virtue  with  his  nature  mixed ; 
The  dross  cements  what  else  were  too  refined, 
And  in  one  int'rest  body  acts  with  mind. 

As  fruits,  ungrateful  to  the  planter's  care, 
On  savage  stocks  inserted  learn  to  bear; 
The  surest  virtues  thus  from  passions  shoot, 
Wild  nature's  vigour  working  at  the  root. 
What  crops  of  wit  and  honesty  appear 
From  spleen,  from  obstinacy,  hate,  or  fear ! 
See  anger,  zeal  and  fortitude  supply; 
Even  avarice,  prudence;  sloth,  philosophy; 
Lust,  through  some  certain  strainers  well  refined, 
Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind; 
Envy,  to  which  the  ignoble  mind's  a  slave, 
Is  emulation  in  the  learned  or  brave ; 
Nor  virtue,  male  or  female,  can  we  name, 
But  what  will  grow  on  pride,  or  grow  on  shame* 

Thus  nature  gives  us  (let  us  check  our  pride) 


LONGER   POEMS  121 

The  virtue  nearest  to  our  vice  allied : 
Reason  the  bias  turns  to  good  from  ill, 
And  Nero  reigns  a  Titus,  if  he  will. 
The  fiery  soul  abhorred  in  Catiline, 
In  Decius  charms,  in  Curtius  is  divine : 1 
The  same  ambition  can  destroy  or  save, 
And  makes  a  patriot  as  it  makes  a  knave. 

This  light  and  darkness  in  our  chaos  joined, 
What  shall  divide  ?  The  God  within  the  mind :  2 

Extremes  in  nature  equal  ends  produce, 
In  man  they  join  to  some  mysterious  use; 
Though  each  by  turns  the  other 's  bound  invade, 
As,  in  some  well-wrought  picture,  light  and  shade, 
And  oft  so  mix,  the  diff 'rence  is  too  nice 
Where  ends  the  virtue,  or  begins  the  vice. 

Fools !  who  from  hence  into  the  notion  fall, 
That  vice  or  virtue  there  is  none  at  all. 
If  white  and  black  blend,  soften,  and  unite 
A  thousand  ways,  is  there  no  black  or  white  ? 
Ask  your  own  heart,  and  nothing  is  so  plain; 
'Tis  to  mistake  them,  costs  the  time  and  pain. 

Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen: 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace. 
But  where  the  extreme  of  vice,  was  ne'er  agreed : 
Ask  where's  the  north?  at  York,  'tis  on  the  Tweed; 
In  Scotland,  at  the  Orcades;  and  there, 
At  Greenland,  Zembla,  or  the  Lord  knows  where. 
No  creature  owns  it  in  the  first  degree, 
But  thinks  his  neighbour  further  gone  than  he ; 
Even  those  who  dwell  beneath  its  very  zone, 
Or  never  feel  the  rage,  or  never  own ; 
What  happier  natures  shrink  at  with  affright, 
The  hard  inhabitant  contends  is  right. 

Virtuous  and  vicious  ev'ry  man  must  be, 
Few  in  the  extreme,  but  all  in  the  degree; 

1  Decius,  who  devoted  himself  to  the  infernal  gods,  and  rushed  to 
his  death  in  battle  because  he  had  learned  in  a  vision  that  the  army 
would  be  victorious  whose  generals  should  fall.  Curtius  leaped  into  a 
gulf  which  had  opened  in  the  Roman  Forum,  and  could  not  be  closed 
till  the  most  valuable  thing  to  Rome  had  been  cast  in.  It  was  a  warrior 
on  his  horse  and  in  his  armour. 

*  Conscience;   a  sublime  expression  of  Plato's. 


122       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

The  rogue  and  fool  by  fits  is  fair  and  wise ; 
And  even  the  best,  by  fits,  what  they  despise, 
Tis  but  by  parts  we  follow  good  or  ill; 
For,,  vice  or  virtue,  self  directs  it  still; 
Each  individual  seeks  a  sev'ral  goal ; 
But  Heav'n's  great  view  is  one,  and  that  the  whole. 
That  counter-works  each  folly  and  caprice; 
That  disappoints  the  effect  of  every  vice ; 
That,  happy  frailties  to  all  ranks  applied, 
Shame  to  the  virgin,  to  the  matron  pride, 
Fear  to  the  statesman,  rashness  to  the  chief, 
To  kings  presumption,  and  to  crowds  belief; 
That,  virtue's  ends  from  vanity  can  raise, 
Which  seeks  no  int'rest,  no  reward  but  praise ; 
And  build  on  wants,  and  on  defects  of  mind, 
The  joy,  the  peace,  the  glory  of  mankind. 

Heav'n  forming  each  on  other  to  depend, 
A  master,  or  a  servant,  or  a  friend, 
Bids  each  on  other  for  assistance  call, 
Till  one  man's  weakness  grows  the  strength  of  all. 
Wants,  frailties,  passions,  closer  still  ally 
The  common  interest,  or  endear  the  tie. 
To  these  we  owe  true  friendship,  love  sincere, 
Each  home-felt  joy  that  life  inherits  here; 
Yet  from  the  same  we  learn,  in  its  decline. 
Those  joys,  those  loves,  those  interests  to  resign; 
Taught  half  by  reason,  half  by  mere  decay, 
To  welcome  death,  and  calmly  pass  away. 

Whate'er  the  passion,  knowledge,  fame,  or  pelf, 
Not  one  will  change  his  neighbour  with  himself. 
The  learned  is  happy  nature  to  explore, 
The  fool  is  happy  that  he  knows  no  more ; 
The  rich  is  happy  in  the  plenty  giv'n, 
The  poor  contents  him  with  the  care  of  heav'h. 
See  the  blind  beggar  dance,  the  cripple  sing, 
The  sot  a  hero,  lunatic  a  king; 
The  starving  chemist  in  his  golden  views  1 
Supremely  blest,  the  poet  in  his  muse. 

See  some  strange  comfort  ev'ry  state  attend, 
And  pride  bestowed  on  all,  a  common  friend ; 
See  some  fit  passion  ev'ry  age  supply. 
Hope  travels  through,  nor  quits  us  when  we  die. 

1  The  alchemist  in  search  of  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 


LONGER  POEMS  123 

Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw : 
Some  livelier  play-thing  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite : 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold,  amuse  his  riper  stage, 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age : 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before ; 
'Till  tired  he  sleeps,  and  life's  poor  play  is  o'er. 

Meanwhile  opinion  gilds  with  varying  rays 
Those  painted  clouds  that  beautify  our  days; 
Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied, 
And  each  vacuity  of  sense  by  pride : 
These  build  as  fast  as  knowledge  can  destroy; 
In  folly's  cup  still  laughs  the  bubble,  joy; 
One  prospect  lost,  another  still  we  gain; 
And  not  a  vanity  is  given  in  vain, 
Even  mean  self-love  becomes,  by  force  divine, 
The  scale  to  measure  others'  wants  by  thine. 
See !  and  confess,  one  comfort  still  must  rise, 
Tis  this,  Though  man's  a  fool,  yet  God  is  wise. 

POPE. 


A  NOCTURNAL  REVERIE 

IN  such  a  Night,  when  every  louder  Wind 
Is  to  its  distant  Cavern  safe  confm'd ; 
And  only  gentle  Zephyr  fans  his  Wings, 
And  lonely  Philomel,  still  waking,  sings; 
Or  from  some  Tree,  fam'd  for  the  Owl's  delight; 
She,  hollowing  clear,  directs  the  Wand'rer  right: 
In  such  a  Night,  when  passing  Clouds  give  place, 
Or  thinly  veil  the  Heav'ns  mysterious  Face; 
When  in  some  River,  overhung  with  Green, 
The  waving  Moon  and  trembling  Leaves  are  seen; 
When  freshen'd  Grass  now  bears  it  self  upright, 
And  makes  cool  Banks  to  pleasing  Rest  invite, 
Whence  springs  the  Woodbine,  and  the  Bramble-Rose, 
And  where  the  sleepy  Cowslip  shelter'd  grows ; 
Whilst  now  a  paler  Hue  the  Foxglove  takes, 
Yet  checquers  still  with  Red  the  dusky  brakes: 
When  scatter'd  Glow-worms,  but  in  Twilight  fine, 
Shew  trivial  Beauties  watch  their  Hour  to  shine; 


124       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Whilst  Salisb'ry  stands  the  Test  of  every  Light, 

In  perfect  Charms,,  and  perfect  Virtue  bright: 

When  Odours,  which  declin'd  repelling  Day, 

Thro'  temp'rate  Air  uninterrupted  stray; 

When  darken' d  Groves  their  softest  Shadows  wear, 

And  falling  Waters  we  distinctly  hear; 

When  thro'  the  Gloom  more  venerable  shows 

Some  ancient  Fabric,  awful  in  Repose, 

While  Sunburnt  Hills  their  swarthy  Looks  conceal, 

And  swelling  Haycocks  thicken  up  the  Vale: 

When  the  loos' d  Horse  now,  as  his  Pasture  leads, 

Comes  slowly  grazing  thro'  th'  adjoining  Meads, 

Whose  stealing  pace,  and  lengthen' d  Shade  we  fear, 

Till  torn  up  Forage  in  his  Teeth  we  hear: 

When  nibbling  Sheep  at  large  pursue  their  Food, 

And  unmolested  Kine  rechew  the  Cud; 

When  Curlews  cry  beneath  the  Village-walls, 

And  to  her  straggling  Brood  the  Partridge  calls; 

Their  shortliv'd  Jubilee  the  Creatures  keep, 

Which  but  endures,  whilst  Tyrant-Man  do's  sleep : 

When  a  sedate  Content  the  Spirit  feels, 

And  no  fierce  Light  disturbs,  whilst  it  reveals ; 

But  silent  Musings  urge  the  Mind  to  seek 

Something,  too  high  for  Syllables  to  speak; 

Till  the  free  Soul  to  a  compos'dness  charm'd, 

Finding  the  Elements  of  Rage  disarm'd, 

O'er  all  below  a  solemn  Quiet  grown, 

Joys  in  th'  inferior  World,  and  thinks  it  like  her  Own : 

In  such  a  Night  let  Me  abroad  remain, 

Till  Morning  breaks,  and  All's  confus'd  again; 

Our  Cares,  our  Toils,  our  Clamours  are  renew'd, 

Or  Pleasures,  seldom  reach'd,  again  pursu'd. 

COUNTESS  OF  WINCHILSEA. 


GRONGAR  HILL 

SILENT  Nymph !  with  curious  eye, 
Who  the  purple  ev'ning  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 


LONGER   POEMS  125 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale ; 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ; 

Now;  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 

Grongar !  in  whose  mossy  cells, 

Sweetly  musing,  Quiet  dwells ; 

Grongar !  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made. 

So  oft  I  have,  the  ev'ning  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill 

Sat  upon  a  flow'ry  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 

Over  mead  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  chequer'd  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours,  intervene ; 
But  the  gay  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show 
In  all  the  hues  of  heav'n's  bow, 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 


126       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  tow'ring  in  the  skies ; 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain  heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes; 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs. 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 
Gaudy  as  the  op'ning  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wand 'ring  eye : 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood, 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 

'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode; 
Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds, 
And  there  the  pois'nous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal'd  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  moulder 'd  walls. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state : 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 


LONGER   POEMS  127 

Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run 
Thro'  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun ! 
Sometimes  swift,,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wand'ring  thought; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our.  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow, 
The  woody  valleys  warm  and  low; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tow'r, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bow'r; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  give  each  a  double  charm, 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  ev'ning  gilds  the  tide, 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie ! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye ! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem; 
So  we  mistake  the  future's  face, 
Ey'd  thro'  Hope's  deluding  glass  ; 
As  yon'  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air, 
Which,  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way; 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see ! 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tam'd,  my  wishes  laid ; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul: 


128       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  Courts !  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor: 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there; 
In  vain  ye  search  the  domes  of  Care ! 
Grass  and  flow'rs  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure  close  ally'd, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side, 
And  often,  by  the  murm'ring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

JOHN  DYER. 


THE  PASSIONS 

AN   ODE   FOR   MUSIC1 

WHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  muse's  painting : 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
1  Performed  at  Oxford,  with  Hayes*  music,  in  1750. 


LONGER  POEMS  129 

And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art,, 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed ;  his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings : 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hand,  the  strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 

'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  0  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delightful  measure? 1 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close, 
And  hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung; — but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose: 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword,  in  thunder,  down; 

And  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
1  In  some  renderings:  What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 


130       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his 

head. 
Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed ; 
And  how  it  courted  love,  now  raving  called  on  hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired; 

And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul: 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole, 

Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 
But  O !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 

The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known ! 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 

And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 
Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial: 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best; 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 

They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids. 

Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 


LONGER  POEMS  131 

Love  framed  with  mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

0  Music !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  pleasure,  wisdom's  aid ! 
Why,  goddess !  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page — 
Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
0  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


LONDON 

THO'  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast  rebel, 
When  injur'd  Thales  bids  the  town  farewel, 
Yet  still  my  calmer  thoughts  his  choice  commend, 
(I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend,) 
Resolv'd  at  length,  from  vice  and  London  far, 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air, 
And,  fix'd  on  Cambria's  solitary  shore, 
Give  to  St.  David  one  true  Briton  more. 


132       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

For  who  woud  leave,  unbrib'd,  Hibernia's  land, 
Or  change  the  rocks  of  Scotland  for  the  Strand  ? 
There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away, 
But  all  whom  hunger  spares  with  age  decay: 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident,  conspire,  •',;: 

And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire ; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay, 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on  your  head, 
And  here  a  female  atheist  talks  you  dead. 

While  Thales  waits  the  wherry  that  contains 
Of  dissipated  wealth  the  small  remains, 
On  Thames's  banks  in  silent  thought  we  stood, 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver  flood; 
Struck  with  the  seat  that  gave  Eliza  birth, 
We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth; 
In  pleasing  dreams  the  blissful  age  renew, 
And  call  Britannia's  glories  back  to  view: 
Behold  her  cross  triumphant  on  the  main, 
The  guard  of  commerce  and  the  dread  of  Spain, 
Ere  masquerades  debauch'd,  excise  oppress'd, 
Or  English  honour  grew  a  standing  jest. 

A  transient  calm  the  happy  scenes  bestow, 
And  for  a  moment  lull  the  sense  of  woe. 
At  length  awaking,  with  contemptuous  frown 
Indignant  Thales  eyes  the  neighboring  town. 

Since  worth,  he  cries,  in  these  degenerate  days 
Wants  ev'n  the  cheap  reward  of  empty  praise ; 
In  those  curs'd  walls,  devote  to  vice  and  gain, 
Since  unrewarded  science  toils  in  vain ; 
Since  hope  but  sooths  to  double  my  distress, 
And  ev'ry  moment  leaves  my  little  less ; 
While  yet  my  steady  steps  no  staff  sustains, 
And  life  still  vig'rous  revels  in  my  veins, 
Grant  me,  kind  heaven,  to  find  some  happier  place; 
Where  honesty  and  sense  are  no  disgrace; 
Some  pleasing  bank  where  verdant  osiers  play, 
Some  peaceful  vale  with  nature's  paintings  gay, 
Where  once  the  harass'd  Briton  found  repose, 
And  safe  in  poverty  defy'd  his  foes; 
Some  secret  cell,  ye  pow'rs,  indulgent  give. 

Let live  here,  for  —   —  has  learn'd  to  live. 

Here  let  those  reign,  whom  pensions  can  incite 


LONGER   POEMS  133 

To  vote  a  patriot  black,  a  courtier  white; 
Explain  their  country's  dear-bought  rights  away,, 
And  plead  for  pirates  in  the  face  of  day; 
With  slavish  tenets  taint  our  poison'd  youth, 
And  lend  a  lie  the  confidence  of  truth. 

Let  such  raise  palaces,  and  manors  buy, 
Collect  a  tax,  or  farm  a  lottery; 
With  warbling  eunuchs  fill  our  silenc'd  stage, 
And  lull  to  servitude  a  thoughtless  age. 

Heroes,  proceed!  what  bounds  your  pride  shall  hold? 
What  check  restrain  your  thirst  of  pow'r  and  gold  ? 
Behold  rebellious  virtue  quite  overthrown, 
Behold  our  fame,  our  wealth,  our  lives  your  own. 
To  such  the  plunder  of  a  land  is  giv'n, 
When  publick  crimes  inflame  the  wrath  of  heav'n ; 
But  what,  my  friend,  what  hope  remains  for  me, 
Who  start  at  theft,  and  blush  at  perjury? 
Who  scarce  forbear,  tho'  Britain's  court  he  sing, 
To  pluck  a  titled  poet's  borrow'd  wing; 
A  statesman's  logic  unconvinc'd  can  hear, 
And  dare  to  slumber  o'er  the  Gazetteer; 
Despise  a  fool  in  half  his  pension  dress'd. 
And  strive  in  vain  to  laugh  at  Clodio's  jest? 

Others,  with  softer  smiles  and  subtler  art, 
Can  sap  the  principles,  or  taint  the  heart; 
With  more  address  a  lover's  note  convey, 
Or  bribe  a  virgin's  innocence  away. 
Well  may  they  rise,  while  I,  whose  rustick  tongue 
Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right,  or  varnish  wrong, 
Spurn' d  as  a  beggar,  dreaded  as  a  spy, 
Live  unregarded,  unlamented  die. 

For  what  but  social  guilt  the  friend  endears  ? 
WTho  shares  Orgilio's  crimes,  his  fortune  shares. 
But  thou,  should  tempting  villany  present 
All  Marlb'rough  hoarded,  or  all  Villiers  spent, 
Turn  from  the  glitt'ring  bribe  thy  scornful  eye, 
Nor  sell  for  gold,  what  gold  could  never  buy, 
The  peaceful  slumber,  self -approving  day, 
Unsullied  fame,  and  conscience  ever  gay. 

The  cheated  nation's  happy  fav'rites  see! 
Mark  whom  the  great  caress,  who  frown  on  me! 
London,  the  needy  villain's  gen'ral  home, 
The  common  sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Rome, 


134       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

With  eager  thirst,  by  folly  or  by  fate, 
Sucks  in  the  dregs  of  each  corrupted  state. 
Forgive  my  transports  on  a  theme  like  this, 
I  cannot  bear  a  French  metropolis. 

Illustrious  Edward !  from  the  realms  of  day. 
The  land  of  heroes  and  of  saints  survey; 
Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace. 
The  rustick  grandeur,  or  the  surly  grace, 
But,  lost  in  thoughtless  ease  and  empty  show, 
Behold  the  warrior  dwindled  to  a  beau; 
Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refin'd  away, 
Of  France  the  mimick,  and  of  Spain  the  prey. 

All  that  at  home  no  more  can  beg  or  steal, 
Or  like  a  gibbet  better  than  a  wheel, 
Hiss'd  from  the  stage,  or  hooted  from  the  court, 
Their  air,  their  dress,  their  politicks  import; 
Obsequious,  artful,  voluble,  and  gay, 
On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey. 
All  sciences  a  fasting  Monsieur  knows, 
And  bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes. 

Ah!  what  avails  it,  that,  from  slav'ry  far, 
I  drew  the  breath  of  life  in  English  air; 
Was  early  taught  a  Briton's  right  to  prize, 
And  lisp  the  tale  of  Henry's  victories ; 
If  the  gull'd  conqueror  receives  the  chain, 
And  flattery  prevails  when  arms  are  vain  ? 

Studious  to  please  and  ready  to  submit, 
The  supple  Gaul  was  born  a  parasite: 
Still  to  his  int'rest  true,  where'er  he  goes, 
Wit,  brav'ry,  worth,  his  lavish  tongue  bestows; 
In  ev'ry  face  a  thousand  graces  shine, 
From  ev'ry  tongue  flows  harmony  divine. 
These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  try, 
Strain  out  with  fault'ring  diffidence  a  lie, 
And  get  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery. 

Besides,  with  justice  this  discerning  age 
Admires  their  wond'rous  talents  for  the  stage: 
Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimick's  art, 
Who  play  from  morn  to  night  a  borrow'd  part ; 
Practised  their  master's  notions  to  embrace, 
Repeat  his  maxims,  and  reflect  his  face; 
With  ev'ry  wild  absurdity  comply, 
And  view  each  object  with  another's  eye; 


LONGER  POEMS  135 

To  shake  with  laughter  ere  the  jest  they  hear, 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear,, 
And  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat,, 
To  shake  in  dog  days,  in  December  sweat, 
How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend, 
Can  surly  virtue  hope  to  fix  a  friend  ? 
Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile, 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile ; 
Can  Balbo's  eloquence  applaud,  and  swear 
He  gropes  his  breeches  with  a  monarch's  air. 

For  arts  like  these  preferr'd,  admir'd,  caress'd 
They  first  invade  your  table,  then  your  breast; 
Explore  your  secrets  with  insidious  art, 
Watch  the  weak  hour,  and  ransack  all  the  heart ; 
Then  soon  your  ill-plac'd  confidence  repay, 
Commence  your  lords,  and  govern  or  betray. 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free 
All  crimes  are  safe,  but  hated  poverty. 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues ; 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter'd  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labours  for  a  joke; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze, 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress'd, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the  gen'rous  heart, 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart. 

Has  heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the  poor, 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscovered  shore  ? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaim'd  by  Spain? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore, 
And  bear  oppression's  insolence  no  more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  ev'ry  where  confess'd, 

SLOW  RISES  WORTH,  BY  POVERTY  DEPRESS'D : 

But  here  more  slow,  where  all  are  slaves  to  gold, 
Where  looks  are  merchandise,  and  smiles  are  sold; 
Where  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implor'd, 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  lord. 

But  hark !  th'  affrighted  crowd's  tumultuous  cries 
Roll  through  the  streets,  and  thunder  to  the  skies : 
Rais'd  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth  and  pow'r. 


136       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bow'r, 
Aghast  you  start,  and  scarce  with  aching  sight 
Sustain  the  approaching  fire's  tremendous  light; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way, 
And  leave  your  little  ALL  to  flames  a  prey; 
Then  thro'  the  world  a  wretched  vagrant  roam, 
For  where  can  starving  merit  find  a  home  ? 
In  vain  your  mournful  narrative  disclose. 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 

Should  heaven's  just  bolts  Orgilio's  wealth  confound, 
And  spread  his  flaming  palace  on  the  ground, 
Swift  o'er  the  land  the  dismal  rumour  flies, 
And  publick  mournings  pacify  the  skies ; 
The  laureat  tribe  in  venal  verse  relate 
How  virtue  wars  with  persecuting  fate; 
With  well-feign'd  gratitude  the  pensioned  band 
Refund  the  plunder  of  the  beggar 'd  land. 
See !  while  he  builds,  the  gaudy  vassals  come, 
And  crowd  with  sudden  wealth  the  rising  dome; 
The  price  of  boroughs  and  of  souls  restore; 
And  raise  his  treasures  higher  than  before : 
Now  bless'd  with  all  the  baubles  of  the  great, 
The  polish'd  marble,  and  the  shining  plate, 
Orgilio  sees  the  golden  pile  aspire, 
And  hopes  from  angry  heav'n  another  fire. 

Could'st  thou  resign  the  park  and  play,  content, 
For  the  fair  banks  of  Severn  or  of  Trent ; 
There  might 'st  thou  find  some  elegant  retreat, 
Some  hireling  senator's  deserted  seat, 
And  stretch  thy  prospects  o'er  the  smiling  land, 
For  less  than  rent  the  dungeons  of  the  Strand; 
There  prune  thy  walks,  support  thy  drooping  flow'rs, 
Direct  thy  rivulets,  and  twine  thy  bow'rs, 
And,  while  thy  grounds  a  cheap  repast  afford, 
Despise  the  dainties  of  a  venal  lord : 
There  ev'ry  bush  with  nature's  musick  rings, 
There  ev'ry  breeze  bears  health  upon  its  wings ; 
On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile, 
And  bless  thine  evening  walk  and  morning  toil. 

Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  night  you  roam, 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home. 

Some  fiery  fop,  with  new  commission  vain, 
Who  sleeps  on  brambles  till  he  kills  his  man, 


LONGER   POEMS  137 

Some  frolick  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  feast, 
Provokes  a  broil ,  and  stabs  you  for  a  jest. 

Yet  ev'n  these  heroes,  mischievously  gay, 
Lords  of  the  street,  and  terrors  of  the  way, 
Flush'd  as  they  are  with  folly,  youth,  and  wine, 
Their  prudent  insults  to  the  poor  confine ; 
Afar  they  mark  the  flambeau's  bright  approach, 
And  shun  the  shining  train  and  golden  coach. 

In  vain,  these  dangers  past,  your  doors  you  close, 
And  hope  the  balmy  blessings  of  repose : 
Cruel  with  guilt,  and  daring  with  despair, 
The  midnight  murd'rer  bursts  the  faithless  bar ; 
Invades  the  sacred  hour  of  silent  rest, 
And  leaves,  unseen,  a  dagger  in  your  breast. 

Scarce  can  our  fields,  such  crowds  at  Tyburn  die, 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 
Propose  your  schemes,  ye  senatorian  band, 
Whose  ways  and  means  support  the  sinking  lancl, 
Lest  ropes  be  wanting  in  the  tempting  Spring, 
To  rig  another  convoy  for  the  king. 

A  single  gaol  in  Alfred's  golden  reign 
Could  half  the  nation's  criminals  contain; 
Fair  Justice  then,  without  constraint  ador'd, 
Held  high  the  steady  scale,  but  sheath'd  the  sword ; 
No  spies  were  paid,  no  special  juries  known: 
Blest  age !  but,  ah !  how  diif 'rent  from  our  own ! 

Much  could  I  add, — but  see !  the  boat  at  hand, 
The  tide  retiring,  calls  me  from  the  land : 
Farewell ! — When,  youth  and  health  and  fortune  spent, 
Thou  fly'st  for  refuge  to  the  wilds  of  Kent, 
And  tir'd,  like  me,  with  follies  and  with  crimes, 
In  angry  numbers  warn'st  succeeding  times; 
Then  shall  thy  friend — nor  thou  refuse  his  aid — 
Still  foe  to  vice,  forsake  his  Cambrian  shade; 
In  virtue's  cause  once  more  exert  his  rage, 
Thy  satire  point,  and  animate  thy  page. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


138       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 

AH  me !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 
To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies ; 
While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blasts  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprise; 
Lend  me  thy  clarion ,  goddess !  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit  ere  it  dies; 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chanced  to  espy, 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  marked  with  little  spire, 
Embowered  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  fame, 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron  old,  whom  we  schoolmistress  name ; 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame : 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame; 
And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconned,  are  sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree, 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stow; 
Whilome  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 
Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow, 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 
But  their  limbs  shuddered,  and  their  pulse  beat  low; 
And  as  they  looked,  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is  seen, 
Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray; 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 
The  noises  intermixed,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  learning's  little  tenement  betray; 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around. 


LONGER   POEMS  139 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield  : 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,,  as  blue,  I  trow, 
As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field; 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays ;  with  anxious  fear  entwined, 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filled; 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  joined, 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own; 
'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair ! 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils  ranged  around, 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 
Goody,  good  woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear; 
Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held  right  dear ; 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 
Who  should  not  honoured  eld  with  these  revere; 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need, 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came; 
Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim; 
And,  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 

Herbs,  too,  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak, 
That  in  her  garden  sipped  the  silvery  dew; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy  streak, 


I4o       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic,  not  a  few,, 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders  grew : 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  balm,  and  marigold  of  cheerful  hue : 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb ; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  decent  eve, 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did  mete; 
If  winter  'twere,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat : 
Sweet  melody !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song  entreat, 
All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 
And  passed  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed; 
And  in  those  elfins'  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times,  when  truth  by  popish  rage  did  bleed, 
And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion's  meed; 
And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed ; 
And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn : 
Ah !  dearest  Lord,  forefend  thilk  days  should  e'er  return ! 

In  elbow-chair  (like  that  of  Scottish  stem, 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defaced, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 
Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  placed) 
The  matron  sat;  and  some  with  rank  she  graced, 
(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtiers'  pride !) 
Redressed  affronts — for  vile  affronts  there  passed ; 
And  warned  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride. 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry, 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays : 
Even  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 


LONGER  POEMS  141 

While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways; 
Forewarned,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo !  now  with  state  she  utters  her  command ; 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair, 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand, 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair: 
The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  achievements  does  declare; 
On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 
Kens  the  forthcoming  rod — unpleasing  sight,  I  ween ! 

Ah !  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star!  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write; 
As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla's  silver  stream,1 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sighed  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite; 
For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late  delight; 
And  down  they  drop;  appears  his  dainty  skin, 
Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O  ruthful  scene !  when,  from  a  nook  obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see, 
All  playful  as  she  sat,  she  grows  demure; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee; 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free; 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny — 
If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree — - 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die* 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command; 
And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous  hand, 
To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent  dear; 
(Ah !  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow, 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe, 

1  Spenser  » 


142       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

But,,  ah !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace  ? 
Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain — 
The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face — 
The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain — 
The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distain  ? 
When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 
Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain; 
Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 
And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling  stroke  proclaim. 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  sky, 
And  liberty  unbars  her  prison  door; 
And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly; 
And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  covered  o'er 
With  boisterous  revel  rout  and  wild  uproar; 
A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run. 
Heaven  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes  I  implore; 
For  well  may  freedom  erst  so  dearly  won 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps!  enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 
And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are  laid, 
O  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies'  bowers. 
O  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing ! 
But  most  in  courts,  where  proud  ambition  towers; 
Deluded  wight !  who  weens  fair  peace  can  spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kaiser  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 
These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay; 
Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund  leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way; 
Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay; 
Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend, 
With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to  play; 
Thilk  to  the  huxter's  savoury  cottage  tend, 
In  pastry  kings  and  queens  the  allotted  mite  to  spend. 

Here  as  each  season  yields  a  different  store, 
Each  season's  stores  in  order  ranged  been; 
Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o'er, 
Galling  full  sore  the  unmoneyed  wight,  are  seen, 


LONGER  POEMS  143 

And  gooseb'rie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green ; 
And  here,,  of  lovely  dye,  the  Catherine  pear, 
Fine  pear!  as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I  ween; 
0  may  no  wight  e'er  penniless  come  there, 
Lest,  smit  with  ardent  love,  he  pine  with  hopeless  care. 

See,  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 
With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  tied, 
Scattering,  like  blooming  maid,  their  glances  round, 
With  pampered  look  draw  little  eyes  aside; 
And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 
The  plum  all  azure,  and  the  nut  all  brown; 
And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide, 
Whose  honoured  names  *  the  inventive  city  own, 
Rendering  through  Britain's  isle  Salopia's  praises  known. 

Admired  Salopia !  that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn's  ambient  wave, 
Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  tried, 
Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings  brave : 
Ah !  midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his  grave 
Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display ! 
A  motive  fair  to  learning's  imps  he  gave, 
Who  cheerless  o'er  her  darkling  region  stray; 
Till  reason's  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on  their  way. 

WTILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD 

THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds; 
1  Shrewsbury  Cakes. 


144       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 
The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise,    . 

Where  thro'  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


LONGER  POEMS  145 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbad ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


146       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked , 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


For  who,  to  dumb  Forget  fulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonoured  Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate. 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


LONGER  POEMS  147 

' '  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt 'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree ; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

"  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  thro'  the  church- way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay, 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompence  as  largely  send  ; 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 
He  gained  from  Heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


148       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 


THE  GRAVE  OF  KING  ARTHUR1 

STATELY  the  feast,  and  high  the  cheer: 
Girt  with  many  an  armed  peer, 
Cilgarran,  in  thy  castle  hall, 
And  canopied  with  golden  pall, 
Sublime  in  formidable  state, 
And  warlike  splendour,  Henry  sate; 
Prepared  to  stain  the  briny  flood 
Of  Shannon's  lakes  with  rebel  blood. 

Illumining  the  vaulted  roof, 
A  thousand  torches  flam'd  aloof: 
From  massy  cups,  with  golden  gleam 
Sparkled  the  red  metheglin's  stream: 
To  grace  the  gorgeous  festival, 
Along  the  lofty- window'd  wall, 
The  storied  tapestry  was  hung: 
With  minstrelsy  the  rafters  rung 
Of  harps,  that  with  reflected  light 
From  the  proud  gallery  glitter 'd  bright: 
While  gifted  bards,  a  rival  throng, 
(From  distant  Mona,  nurse  of  song, 
From  Teivi,  fring'd  with  umbrage  brown, 
From  Elvy's  vale,  and  Cader's  crown, 
From  many  a  shaggy  precipice 
That  shades  lerne's  hoarse  abyss, 

1  King  Henry  the  Second,  having  undertaken  an  expedition  into 
Ireland,  to  suppress  a  rebellion  raised  by  Roderick,  King  of  Connaught, 
commonly  called  O  Connor  Dun,  or  the  brown  monarch  of  Ireland, 
was  entertained,  in  his  passage  through  Wales,  with  the  songs  of  the 
Welsh  Bards.  The  subject  of  their  poetry  was  King  Arthur,  whose 
history  had  been  so  long  disguised  by  fabulous  inventions,  that  the 
place  of  his  burial  was  in  general  scarcely  known  or  remembered. 
But  in  one  of  these  Welsh  poems  sung  before  Henry,  it  was  recited, 
that  King  Arthur,  after  the  battle  of  Caiman  in  Cornwall,  was  interred 
at  Glastonbury  Abbey,  before  the  high  altar,  yet  without  any  external 
mark  or  memorial.  Afterwards  Henry  visited  the  abbey,  and  com- 
manded the  spot,  described  by  the  Bard,  to  be  opened:  when  digging 
near  twenty  feet  deep,  they  found  the  body,  deposited  under  a  large 
stone,  inscribed  with  Arthur's  name.  This  is  the  ground-work  of 
the  following  Ode:  but  for  the  better  accommodation  of  the  story 
to  our  present  purpose,  it  is  told  with  some  slight  variations  from  the 
Chronicle  of  Glastonbury.  The  castle  of  Cilgarran,  where  this  discovery 
is  supposed  to  have  been  made,  now  a  most  romantic  ruin,  stands  on 
a  rock  descending  to  the  river  Teivi  in  Pembrokeshire:  and  was  built 
by  Roger  Montgomery,  who  led  the  van  of  the  Normans  at  Hastings. 


LONGER  POEMS  149 

And  many  a  sunless  solitude 
Of  Radnor's  inmost  mountains  rude,) 
To  crown  the  banquet's  solemn  close, 
Themes  of  British  glory  chose; 
And  to  the  strings  of  various  chime 
Attemper 'd  thus  the  fabling  rime. 

"  O'er  Cornwall's  cliffs  the  tempest  roar'd, 
High  the  screaming  sea-mew  soar'd; 
On  Tintaggel's l  topmost  tower 
Darksom  fell  the  sleety  shower; 
Round  the  rough  castle  shrilly  sung 
The  whirling  blast,  and  wildly  flung 
On  each  tall  rampart's  thundering  side 
The  surges  of  the  tumbling  tide : 
When  Arthur  rang'd  his  red-cross  ranks 
On  conscious  Camlan's  crimson'd  banks: 
By  Mordred's  faithless  guile  decreed 
Beneath  a  Saxon  spear  to  bleed ! 
Yet  in  vain  a  paynim  foe 
Arm'd  with  fate  the  mighty  blow; 
For  when  he  fell,  an  elfin  queen, 
AH  in  secret,  and  unseen, 
O'er  the  fainting  hero  threw 
Her  mantle  of  ambrosial  blue ; 
And  bade  her  spirits  bear  him  far, 
In  Merlin's  agate-axled  car, 
To  her  green  isle's  enamel  steep, 
In  the  navel  of  the  deep. 
O'er  his  wounds  she  sprinkled  dew 
From  flowers  that  in  Arabia  grew: 
On  a  rich,  inchanted  bed, 
She  pillow'd  his  majestic  head; 
O'er  his  brow,  with  whispers  bland, 
Thrice  she  wav'd  an  opiate  wand; 
And,  to  soft  music's  airy  sound, 
Her  magic  curtains  clos'd  around. 
There,  renew'd  the  vital  spring, 
Again  he  reigns  a  mighty  king; 
And  many  a  fair  and  fragrant  clime, 

1  Tintaggel,  or  Tintadgel  Castle,  where  King  Arthur  is  said  to  have 
been  born,  and  to  have  chiefly  resided.  Some  of  its  huge  fragments 
still  remain,  on  a  rocky  peninsular  cape,  of  a  prodigious  declivity 
towards  the  sea,  and  almost  inaccessible  from  the  land  side,  on  the 
northern  coast  of  Cornwall. 


150       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Blooming  in  immortal  prime, 

By  gales  of  Eden  ever  fann'd, 

Owns  the  monarch's  high  command : 

Thence  to  Britain  shall  return, 

(If  right  prophetic  rolls  I  learn) 

Borne  on  Victory's  spreading  plume. 

His  ancient  sceptre  to  resume; 

Once  more,  in  old  heroic  pride, 

His  barbed  courser  to  bestride; 

His  knightly  table  to  restore, 

And  the  brave  tournaments  of  yore." 

They  ceas'd:  when  on  the  tuneful  stage 

Advanc'd  a  bard,  of  aspect  sage; 

His  silver  tresses,  thin-besprent, 

To  age  a  graceful  reverence  lent; 

His  beard,  all  white  as  spangles  frore 

That  cloth  Plinlimmon's  forests  hoar, 

Down  to  his  harp  descending  flow'd; 

With  Time's  faint  rose  his  features  glow'd; 

His  eyes  diffus'd  a  soften'd  fire, 

And  thus  he  moved  the  warbling  wire. 

"  Listen,  Henry,  to  my  rede! 
Not  from  fairy  realms  I  lead 
Bright-rob'd  Tradition,  to  relate 
In  forged  colours  Arthur's  fate; 
Tho'  much  of  old  romantic  lore 
On  the  blest  theme  I  keep  in  store : 
But  boastful  Fiction  should  be  dumb, 
Where  Truth  the  strain  might  best  become. 
If  thine  ear  may  still  be  won 
With  songs  of  Uther's  glorious  son; 
Henry,  I  a  tale  unfold, 
Never  yet  in  rime  enrolFd, 
Nor  sung  nor  harp'd  in  hall  or  bower ; 
Which  in  my  youth's  full  early  flower, 
A  minstrel,  sprung  of  Cornish  line, 
Who  spoke  of  kings  from  old  Locrine, 
Taught  me  to  chant,  one  vernal  dawn, 
Deep  in  a  cliff-encircled  lawn, 
What  time  the  glistening  vapours  fled 
From  cloud-envelop'd  Glyder's1  head; 
And  on  its  sides  the  torrents  gray 
1  A  mountain  in  Caernarvonshire. 


LONGER  POEMS  151 

Shone  to  the  morning's  orient  ray. 

When  Arthur  bow'd  his  haughty  crest, 
No  princess,  veil'd  in  azure  vest, 
Snatch'd  him,  by  Merlin's  potent  spell, 
In  groves  of  golden  bliss  to  dwell ; 
Where,  crown' d  with  wreaths  of  mistletoe, 
Slaughter 'd  kings  in  glory  go: 
But  when  he  fell,  with  winged  speed, 
His  champions,  on  a  milk-white  steed, 
From  the  battle's  hurricane, 
Bore  him  to  Joseph's  towered  fane, 
In  the  fair  vale  of  Avalon : 1 
There,  with  chanted  orison, 
And  the  long  blaze  of  tapers  clear, 
The  stole  d  fathers  met  the  bier; 
Through  the  dim  aisles,  in  order  dread 
Of  martial  woe,  the  chief  they  led, 
And  deep  intomb'd  in  holy  ground, 
Before  the  altar's  solemn  bound. 
Around  no  dusky  banners  wave, 
No  mouldering  trophies  mark  the  grave: 
Away  the  ruthless  Dane  has  torn 
Each  trace  that  Time's  slow  touch  had  worn; 
And  long,  o'er  the  neglected  stone, 
Oblivion's  veil  its  shade  has  thrown: 
The  faded  tomb,  with  honour  due, 
Tis  thine,  O  Henry,  to  renew! 
Thither,  when  Conquest  has  restor'd 
Yon  recreant  isle,  and  sheath' d  the  sword, 
When  Peace  with  palm  has  crown'd  thy  brows, 
Haste  thee,  to  pay  thy  pilgrim  vows. 
There,  observant  of  my  lore, 
The  pavement's  hallo w'd  depth  explore; 
And  thrice  a  fathom  underneath 
Dive  into  the  vaults  of  death. 
There  shall  thine  eye,  with  wild  amaze, 
On  his  gigantic  stature  gaze; 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  monarch  laid, 
All  in  warrior- weeds  array 'd  : 
Wearing  in  death  his  helmet-crown, 
And  weapons  huge  of  old  renown. 

1  Glastonbury  Abbey,  said  to  be  founded  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea; 
in  a  spot,  anciently  called  the  island,  or  valley,  of  Avalonia. 
F  746 


152       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Martial  prince,  'tis  thine  to  save 

From  dark  oblivion  Arthur's  grave ! 

So  may  thy  ships  securely  stem 

The  western  frith:  thy  diadem 

Shine  victorious  in  the  van, 

Nor  heed  the  slings  of  Ulster's  clan : 

Thy  Norman  pike-men  win  their  way 

Up  the  dun  rocks  of  Harald's  bay:  x 

And  from  the  steeps  of  rough  Kildare 

Thy  prancing  hoofs  the  falcon  scare : 

So  may  thy  bow's  unerring  yew 

Its  shafts  in  Roderick's  heart  embrew."  2 

Amid  the  pealing  symphony 
The  spiced  goblets  mantled  high, 
With  passions  new  the  song  impress'd 
The  listening  king's  impatient  breast : 
Flash  the  keen  lightnings  from  his  eyes ; 
He  scorns  awhile  his  bold  emprise; 
Ev'n  now  he  seems,  with  eager  pace, 
The  consecrated  floor  to  trace; 
And  ope,  from  its  tremendous  gloom, 
The  treasures  of  the  wonderous  tomb : 
Ev'n  now,  he  burns  in  thought  to  rear, 
From  its  dark  bed,  the  ponderous  spear, 
Rough  with  the  gore  of  Pictish  kings : 
Ev'n  now  fond  hope  his  fancy  wings, 
To  poise  the  monarch's  massy  blade, 
Of  magic-temper'd  metal  made ; 
And  drag  to  day  the  dinted  shield 
That  felt  the  storm  of  Camlan's  field. 
O'er  the  sepulchre  profound 
Ev'n  now,  with  arching  sculpture  crown'd, 
He  plans  the  chantry's  choral  shrine, 
The  daily  dirge,  and  rites  divine. 

THOMAS  WARTON. 

1  The  Bay  of  Dublin.    Harald,  or  Har-fager,  the  Fair-haired,  King 
of  Norway,  is  said,  in  the  Life  of  Gryfiudh  ap  Conan,  prince  of  North 
Wales,  to  have  conquered  Ireland,  and  to  have  founded  Dublin. 

2  Henry  is  supposed  to  have  succeeded  in  this  enterprise,  chiefly 
by    the   use   of   the   long-bow,    with   which  the  Irish  were  entirely 
unacquainted. 


LONGER  POEMS  153 

AN  EXCELENTE  BALADE  OF  CHARITIE 

(AS  WROTEN  BIE  THE  CODE  PRIEST,  THOMAS  ROWLEY,   1464) 

IN  Virgine  the  sweltry  sun  'gan  sheene, 

And  hot  upon  the  mees  did  cast  his  ray; 
The  apple  ripened  from  its  paly  green, 

And  the  soft  pear  did  bend  the  leafy  spray; 
The  pied  chelandre  sung  the  livelong  day; 
Twas  now  the  pride,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 
And  eke  the  ground  was  dressed  in  its  most  neat  aumere. 

The  sun  was  gleaming  in  the  midst  of  day, 

Dead-still  the  air,  and  eke  the  welkin  blue, 
When  from  the  sea  arose  in  drear  array 
A  heap  of  clouds  of  sable  sullen  hue, 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodland  drew, 
Hiding  at  once  the  sunnis  beauteous  face, 
And  the  black  tempest  swelled,  and  gathered  up  apace. 

Beneath  a  holm,  fast  by  a  pathway-side, 

Which  did  unto  Saint  Godwin's  convent  led, 
A  hapless  pilgrim  moaning  did  abide, 
Poor  in  his  view,  ungentle  in  his  weed, 
Long  filled  with  the  miseries  of  need. 
Where  from  the  hailstone  could  the  beggar  fly? 
He  had  no  houses  there,  nor  any  convent  nigh. 

Look  in  his  clouded  face,  his  sprite  there  scan; 

How  woe-begone,  how  withered,  sapless,  dead ! 
Haste  to  thy  church-glebe-house,  accursed  man ! 
Haste  to  thy  kiste,  thy  only  sleeping  bed. 
Cold  as  the  clay  which  will  grow  on  thy  head 
Is  charity  and  love  among  high  elves ; 
Knightis  and  barons  live  for  pleasure  and  themselves. 

The  gathered  storm  is  ripe ;  the  big  drops  fall, 

The  sun-burnt  meadows  smoke,  and  drink  the  rain; 
The  coming  ghastness  do  the  cattle  'pall, 

And  the  full  flocks  are  driving  o'er  the  plain; 
Dashed  from  the  clouds,  the  waters  fly  again; 
The  welken  opes ;  the  yellow  lightning  flies, 
And  tke  hot  fiery  steam  in  the  wide  lo wings  dies. 


154       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

List !  now  the  thunder's  rattling  noisy  sound 
Moves  slowly  on,  and  then  embollen  clangs, 
Shakes  the  high  spire,  and  lost,  expended,  drowned, 
Still  on  the  frighted  ear  of  terror  hangs; 
The  winds  are  up;  the  lofty  elmen  swangs; 
Again  the  lightning  and  the  thunder  pours, 
And  the  full  clouds  are  burst  at  once  in  stony  showers. 

Spurring  his  palfrey  o'er  the  watery  plain, 

The  Abbot  of  Saint  Godwin's  convent  came ; 
His  chapournette  was  drented  with  the  rain, 
And  his  pencte  girdle  met  with  mickle  shame ; 
He  backwards  told  his  bede-roll  at  the  same 
The  storm  increases,  and  he  drew  aside, 
With  the  poor  alms-era ver  near  to  the  holm  to  bide. 

His  cloak  was  all  of  Lincoln  cloth  so  fine, 

With  a  gold  button  fastened  near  his  chin, 
His  autremete  was  edged  with  golden  twine, 
And  his  shoe's  peak  a  loverde's  might  have  been; 
Full  well  it  shewn  he  thoughten  cost  no  sin. 
The  trammels  of  his  palfrey  pleased  his  sight, 
For  the  horse-milliner  his  head  with  roses  dight. 

"  An  alms,  sir  priest !  "  the  drooping  pilgrim  said, 

"Oh!  let  -me  wait  within  your  convent-door, 
Till  the  sun  shineth  high  above  our  head, 
And  the  loud  tempest  of  the  air  is  o'er. 
Helpless  and  old  am  I,  alas !  and  poor. 
No  house,  no  friend,  no  money  in  my  pouch, 
All  that  I  call  my  own  is  this  my  silver  crouche." 

"  Varlet !  "  replied  the  Abbot,  "  cease  your  din; 

This  is  no  season  alms  and  prayers  to  give, 
My  porter  never  lets  a  beggar  in; 

None  touch  my  ring  who  not  in  honour  live." 
And  now  the  sun  with  the  black  clouds  did  strive, 
And  shedding  on  the  ground  his  glaring  ray ; 
The  abbot  spurred  his  steed,  and  eftsoon  rode  away. 

Once  more  the  sky  was  black,  the  thunder  rolled, 

Fast  running  o'er  the  plain  a  priest  was  seen; 
Not  dight  full  proud,  nor  buttoned  up  in  gold, 


LONGER  POEMS  155 

His  cope  and  jape  were  grey,  and  eke  were  clean ; 

A  limitour  he  was  of  order  seen; 
And  from  the  pathway-side  then  turned  he, 
Where  the  poor  beggar  lay  beneath  the  elmen  tree. 

"  An  alms,  sir  priest !  "  the  drooping  pilgrim  said, 

"  For  sweet  Saint  Mary  and  your  order  sake." 
The  limitour  then  loosened  his  pouch-thread, 
And  did  thereout  a  groat  of  silver  take : 
The  needly  pilgrim  did  for  haline  shake, 
"  Here,  take  this  silver,  it  may  ease  thy  care, 
We  are  God's  stewards  all,  naught  of  our  own  we  bear. 

"  But  ah!  unhappy  pilgrim,  learn  of  me. 

Scathe  any  give  a  rent-roll  to  their  Lord ; 
Here,  take  my  semi-cope,  thou'rt  bare,  I  see, 
3Tis  thine;  the  saints  will  give  me  my  reward." 
He  left  the  pilgrim,  and  his  way  aborde. 
Virgin  and  holy  saint,  who  sit  in  gloure, 
Or  give  the  mighty  will,  or  give  the  good  man  power. 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


THE  SHIPWRECK 

BUT  now  Athenian  mountains  they  descry, 
And  o'er  the  surge  Colonna  frowns  on  high. 
Beside  the  cape's  projecting  verge  is  placed 
A  range  of  columns  long  by  time  defaced ; 
First  planted  by  devotion  to  sustain, 
In  elder  times,  Tritonia's  sacred  fane. 
Foams  the  wild  beach  below  with  maddening  rage, 
Where  waves  and  rocks  a  dreadful  combat  wage. 
The  sickly  heaven,  fermenting  with  its  freight, 
Still  vomits  o'er  the  main  the  feverish  weight: 
And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high, 
Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 
A  flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light, 
Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night: 
Rodmond,  who  heard  a  piteous  groan  behind, 
Touched  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind; 


156       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

And  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd, 
He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  the  shroud, 
"  Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend,"  he  cries; 
"  Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies." 
The  helm,,  bereft  of  half  its  vital  force, 
Now  scarce  subdued  the  wild  unbridled  course; 
Quick  to  the  abandoned  wheel  Arion  came, 
The  ship's  tempestuous  sallies  to  reclaim. 
Amazed  he  saw  her,  o'er  the  sounding  foam 
Upborne,  to  right  and  left  distracted  roam. 
So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  pale  dismay, 
When,  mounted  on  the  flaming  car  of  day, 
With  rash  and  impious  hand  the  stripling  tried 
The  immortal  coursers  of  the  sun  to  guide. 
The  vessel,  while  the  dread  event  draws  nigh, 
Seems  more  impatient  o'er  the  waves  to  fly: 
Fate  spurs  her  on.   Thus,  issuing  from  afar, 
Advances  to  the  sun  some  blazing  star; 
And,  as  it  feels  the  attraction's  kindling  force, 
Springs  onward  with  accelerated  force. 

With  mournful  look  the  seamen  eyed  the  strand, 
Where  death's  inexorable  jaws  expand; 
Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all  dangers  past, 
As,  dumb  with  terror,  they  beheld  the  last. 
Now  on  the  trembling  shrouds,  before,  behind, 
In  mute  suspense  they  mount  into  the  wind. 
The  genius  of  the  deep,  on  rapid  wing, 
The  black  eventful  moment  seemed  to  bring. 
The  fatal  sisters,  on  the  surge  before, 
Yoked  their  infernal  horses  to  the  prore. 
The  steersmen  now  received  their  last  command 
To  wheel  the  vessel  sidelong  to  the  strand. 
Twelve  sailors,  on  the  foremast  who  depend, 
High  on  the  platform  of  the  top  ascend: 
Fatal  retreat !  for  while  the  plunging  prow 
Immerges  headlong  in  the  wave  below, 
Down-pressed  by  watery  weight  the  bowsprit  bends, 
And  from  above  the  stem  deep  crashing  rends. 
Beiieath  her  beak  the  floating  ruins  lie; 
The  foremast  totters,  unsustained  on  high; 
And  now  the  ship,  fore-lifted  by  the  sea, 
Hurls  the  tall  fabric  backward  o'er  her  lee ; 
While,  in  the  general  wreck,  the  faithful  stay 


LONGER  POEMS  157 

Drags  the  maintop-mast  from  its  post  away. 
Flung  from  the  mast,  the  seamen  strive  in  vain 
Through  hostile  floods  their  vessel  to  regain. 
The  waves  they  buffet,,  till,  bereft  of  strength, 
O'erpowered,  they  yield  to  cruel  fate  at  length. 
The  hostile  waters  close  around  their  head, 
They  sink  for  ever,  numbered  with  the  dead ! 

Those  who  remain  their  fearful  doom  await. 
Nor  longer  mourn  their  lost  companions'  fate. 
The  heart  that  bleeds  with  sorrows  all  its  own, 
Forgets  the  pangs  of  friendship  to  bemoan. 
Albert  and  Rodmond  and  Balemon  here, 
With  young  Arion,  on  the  mast  appear; 
Even  they,  amid  the  unspeakable  distress, 
In  every  look  distracting  thoughts  confess ; 
In  every  vein  the  refluent  blood  congeals , 
And  every  bosom  fatal  terror  feels.         % 
Enclosed  with  all  the  demons  of  the  main, 
They  viewed  the  adjacent  shore,  but  viewed  in  vain.  *  * 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe, 
With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near! 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death, 
Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneathl 
In  vain,  alas !  the  sacred  shades  of  yore, 
Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore ; 
In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath, 
To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 
Even  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old, 
This  fell  abyss  had  shuddered  to  behold. 
Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue  famed, 
And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaimed, 
Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress, 
His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess ! 
O  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers  above, 
This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate  to  prove ! 
The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet  sustain ! 
Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 
For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 
And  o'er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies, 


158       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground, 

Earth  groans,  air  trembles,,  and  the  deeps  resound! 

Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 

And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels; 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonising  throes, 

The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows. 

Again  she  plunges ;  hark !  a  second  shock 

Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock ! 

Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 

The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes 

In  wild  despair;  while  yet  another  stroke, 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak: 

Till,  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 

The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 

At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides, 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

SWEET  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd : 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,1  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene; 

How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighbouring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ; 

How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree : 

1  Some  of  the  details  of  the  picture  are  borrowed  from  Lissoy,  the 
little  hamlet  in  Westmeath  where  the  author  spent  his  younger  days. 


LONGER  POEMS  159 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ! 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove  : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village ;  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms — But  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain : 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  chok'd  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way. 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers,  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy 'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man; 


160       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth,  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  grac'd  the  peaceful  scene, 
Liv'd  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  AUBURN  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain.1 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  GOD  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  an  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  pass'd, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

1  There  is  no  satisfactory  evidence  that  Goldsmith  ever  revisited 
Ireland  after  he  left  it  in  1752. 


LONGER  POEMS  161 

0  blest  retirement,,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend ; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  Heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  pass'd!1 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school; 
The  watchdog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisp'ring  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filPd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forc'd  in  age/for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn; 

1  Under  the  title  of  Resignation,  Reynolds  in  1771  dedicated  a 
print  of  an  old  man  to  Goldsmith  as  "  expressing  the  character  " 
sketched  in  this  paragraph. 


162       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain.1 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiFd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.2 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place ; 
Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn' d  to  prize, 
More  skill' d  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain; 
The  long  remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  Virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all. 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

1This  has  been  identified  with  Catherine  Geraghty,  a  familiar 
personage  at  Lissoy  in  Goldsmith's  boyhood. 

8  The  character  that  follows  is  probably  combined  from  the  author's 
father,  his  brother  Henry,  and  his  uncle  Contarine,  all  clergymen. 


LONGER  POEMS  163 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper' d  praise. 

At  church  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  pass'd,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distressed; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom' d  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill' d  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school;  L 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh' d,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd; 
Yet  he  was  kind :  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too; 

1  Some  of  the  traits  of  this  portrait  correspond  with  those  of  Gold- 
smith's master  at  Lissoy,  one  Byrne. 


164       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around, 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.  The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspir'd, 
Where  grey-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place; 
The  white- wash' d  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,1  the  royal  game  of  goose; 2 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill' d  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay; 
While  br6ken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall ! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  wood-man's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 

1  The  well-known  maxims  "  found  in  the  study  of  King  Charles 
the  First,  of  Blessed  Memory,"  and  common  in  Goldsmith's  day  as 
a  broadside. 

1  See  Strutt's  Sports  and  Pastimes,  Bk.  iv.  ch.  2,  §  xxv. 


LONGER   POEMS  165 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd : 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards,  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.   This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.  The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth, 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies : 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all    » 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 


166       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

As  some  fair  female  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow' d  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes : 
But  when  those  charms  are  pass'd,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While,  scourg'd  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah !  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare- worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow  creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies.1 

1  Cf.  The  Bee,  27th  October,  1759  (A  City  Night-Piece}. 


LONGER  POEMS  167 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 

Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  AUBURN,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah,  no.   To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  l  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm' d  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter' d  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !    what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
1  Alatamaha,  in  Georgia,  North  America. 


168       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  pass'd, 

Hung  round  their  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 

For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 

And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 

Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 

The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 

To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose; 

And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury !  thou  curs'd  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchang'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms,  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land : 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there; 


LONGER  POEMS  169 

And  piety  with  wishes  plac'd  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame: 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell,  and  Oh !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  *  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  2  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth;  with  thy  persuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possess'd, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  bless'd; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.3 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

1  Tornea,  a  river  falling  into  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia. 

2  A  mountain  near  Quito,  South  America. 

8  Johnson  wrote  the  last  four  lines.    (Birkbeck  Hill's  Boswell,  1887, 

it  70 


THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


A  SONG  TO  DAVID 

ARGUMENT.  Invocation,  i-iii.  The  excellence  and  lustre  of  David's 
character  (in  twelve  points  of  view),  proved  from  the  history  of  his 
life,  iv-xvi.  He  consecrates  his  genius  for  consolation  and  edification : — 
The  subjects  he  made  choice  of — the  Supreme  Being — angels,  men  of 
renown,  the  works  of  nature  in  all  directions,  either  particularly  or 
collectively  considered,  xvii-xxvi.  He  obtains  power  over  infernal 
spirits,  and  the  malignity  of  his  enemies;  wins  the  heart  of  Michal, 
xxvii-xxix.  Shows  that  the  pillars  of  knowledge  are  the  monuments 
of  God's  works  in  the  first  week,  xxx-xxxvii. 

An  exercise  upon  the  Decalogue,  xl-xlix.  The  transcendent  virtue 
of  praise  and  adoration,  1-li.  An  exercise  upon  the  seasons  and  the 
right  use  of  them,  lii-lxiii.  An  exercise  upon  the  senses,  and  how  to 
subdue  them,  Ixiv-lxxi.  An  amplification  in  five  degrees,  which  is 
wrought  up  to  this  conclusion: — That  the  best  poet  who  ever  lived, 
was  thought  worthy  of  the  highest  honour  which  possibly  can  be  con- 
ceived, as  the  Saviour  of  the  world  was  ascribed  to  his  house,  and  called 
his  son  in  the  body,  Ixxii.  The  End. 


O  THOU,  that  sitt'st  upon  a  throne, 
With  harp  of  high,  majestic  tone, 

To  praise  the  King  of  kings : 
And  voice  of  heaven-ascending  swell, 
Which,  while  its  deeper  notes  excel, 

Clear  as  a  clarion  rings ; 

ii 

To  bless  each  valley,  grove,  and  coast, 
And  charm  the  cherubs  to  the  post 

Of  gratitude  in  throngs ; 
To  keep  the  days  on  Zion's  Mount, 
And  send  the  Year  to  his  account, 

With  dances  and  with  songs : 

in 

0  servant  of  God's  holiest  charge, 
The  minister  of  praise  at  large, 

Which  thou  mayst  now  receive ; 
From  thy  blest  mansion  hail  and  hear, 
From  topmost  eminence  appear 

To  this  the  wreath  I  weave. 


LONGER   POEMS  171 


IV 

Great,  valiant,  pious,  good,  and  clean, 
Sublime,  contemplative,  serene, 

Strong,  constant,  pleasant,  wise ! 
Bright  effluence  of  exceeding  grace ; 
Best  man !  the  swiftness  and  the  race, 

The  peril  and  the  prize ! 


Great — from  the  lustre  of  his  crown, 
From  Samuel's  horn,  and  God's  renown, 

Which  is  the  people's  voice; 
For  all  the  host,  from  rear  to  van, 
Applauded  and  embraced  the  man — 

The  man  of  God's  own  choice. 


VI 

Valiant — the  word,  and  up  he  rose : 
The  fight — he  triumphed  o'er  the  foes 

Whom  God's  just  laws  abhor; 
And,  armed  in  gallant  faith,  he  took 
Against  the  boaster,  from  the  brook, 

The  weapons  of  the  war. 


VII 

Pious — magnificent  and  grand, 
'Twas  he  the  famous  temple  plann'd, 

(The  seraph  in  his  soul :) 
Foremost  to  give  the  Lord  his  dues, 
Foremost  to  bless  the  welcome  news. 

And  foremost  to  condole. 


VIII 

Good — from  Jehudah's  genuine  vein, 
From  God's  best  nature,  good  in  grain, 


172       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

His  aspect  and  his  heart : 
To  pity,  to  forgive,  to  save, 
Witness  En-gedi's  conscious  cave, 

And  Shimei's  blunted  dart. 


IX 

Clean — if  perpetual  prayer  be  pure, 
And  love,  which  could  itself  inure 

To  fasting  and  to  fear — 
Clean  in  his  gestures,  hands  and  feet, 
To  smite  the  lyre,  the  dance  complete, 

To  play  the  sword  and  spear. 


Sublime — invention  ever  young, 
Of  vast  conception,  tow'ring  tongue, 

To  God  the  eternal  thejpe; 
Notes  from  yon  exaltations  caught, 
UnrivalPd  royalty  of  thought, 

O'er  meaner  strains  supreme. 


XI 

Contemplative — on  God  to  fix 
His  musings,  and  above  the  six 

The  Sabbath-day  he  blessed; 
'Twas  then  his  thoughts  self-conquest  pruned, 
And  heavenly  melancholy  tuned, 

To  bless  and  bear  the  rest. 


XII 

Serene — to  sow  the  seeds  of  peace, 
Remembering,  when  he  watched  the  fleece, 

How  sweetly  Kidron  purled — 
To  further  knowledge,  silence  vice, 
And  plant  perpetual  paradise, 

When  God  had  calmed  the  world. 


LONGER  POEMS  173 

XIII 

Strong — in  the  Lord,  who  could  defy 
Satan,  and  all  his  powers  that  lie 

In  sempiternal  night; 
And  hell,  and  horror,  and  despair 
Were  as  the  lion  and  the  bear 

To  his  undaunted  might. 


XIV 

Constant — in  love  to  God,  THE  TRUTH, 
Age,  manhood,  infancy,  and  youth : 

To  Jonathan  his  friend 
Constant,  beyond  the  verge  of  death; 
And  Ziba,  and  Mephibosheth, 

His  endless  fame  attend. 


xv 

Pleasant — and  various  as  the  year; 
Man,  soul,  and  angel  without  Peer, 

Priest,  champion,  sage,  and  boy; 
In  armour  or  in  ephod  clad, 
His  pomp,  his  piety  was  glad ; 

Majestic  was  his  joy. 


XVI 

Wise — in  recovery  from  his  fall, 
Whence  rose  his  eminence  o'er  all, 

Of  all  the  most  reviled; 
The  light  of  Israel  in  his  ways, 
Wise  are  his  precepts,  prayer,  and  praise, 

And  counsel  to  his  child. 


XVII 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce, 


174       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage : 
Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 


XVIII 

He  sang  of  God — the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends; 
From  Whose  right  arm,  beneath  Whose  eyes, 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 


XIX 

Angels — their  ministry  and  meed, 
Which  to  and  fro  with  blessings  speed, 

Or  with  their  citterns  wait ; 
Where  Michael,  with  his  millions,  bows, 
Where  dwells  the  seraph  and  his  spouse, 

The  cherub  and  her  mate. 


xx 

Of  man — the  semblance  and  effect 
Of  God  and  love — the  saint  elect 

For  infinite  applause — 
To  rule  the  land,  and  briny  broad, 
To  be  laborious  in  his  laud, 

And  heroes  in  his  cause. 


XXI 

The  world — the  clustering  spheres  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  Secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  Wisdom  hides  her  skill. 


LONGER  POEMS  175 


XXII 


Trees,  plants,  and  flowers — of  virtuous  root; 
Gem  yielding  blossom,  yielding  fruit, 

Choice  gums  and  precious  balm; 
Bless  ye  the  nosegay  in  the  vale, 
And  with  the  sweetness  of  the  gale 

Enrich  the  thankful  psalm. 


XXIII 

Of  fowl — even  every  beak  and  wing 
Which  cheer  the  winter,  hail  the  spring, 

That  live  in  peace  or  prey; 
They  that  make  music,  or  that  mock; 
The  quail,  the  brave  domestic  cock, 

The  raven,  swan,  and  jay. 


XXIV 

Of  fishes — every  size  and  shape, 
Which  nature  frames  of  light  escape, 

Devouring  man  to  shun: 
The  shells  are  in  the  wealthy  deep, 
The  shoals  upon  the  surface  leap, 

And  love  the  glancing  sun. 


XXV 

Of  beasts — the  beaver  plods  his  task ; 
While  the  sleek  tigers  roll  and  bask, 

Nor  yet  the  shades  arouse; 
Her  cave  the  mining  coney  scoops ; 
Where  o'er  the  mead  the  mountain  stoops, 

The  kids  exult  and  browse. 


XXVI 

Of  gems — their  virtue  and  their  price, 
Which,  hid  in  earth  from  man's  device, 


176       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Their  darts  of  lustre  sheathe ; 
The  jasper  of  the  master's  stamp, 
The  topaz  blazing  like  a  lamp, 

Among  the  mines  beneath. 


XXVII 

Blest  was  the  tenderness  he  felt, 
When  to  his  graceful  harp  he  knelt, 

And  did  for  audience  call ; 
When  Satan  with  his  hand  he  quelled, 
And  in  serene  suspense  he  held 

The  frantic  throes  of  Saul. 


XXVIII 

His  furious  foes  no  more  maligned 
As  he  such  melody  divined, 

And  sense  and  soul  detained ; 
Now  striking  strong,  now  soothing  soft, 
He  sent  the  godly  sounds  aloft, 

Or  in  delight  refrained. 


XXIX 

When  up  to  heaven  his  thoughts  he  piled 
From  fervent  lips  fair  Michal  smiled, 

As  blush  to  blush  she  stood ; 
And  chose  herself  the  queen,  and  gave 
Her  utmost  from  her  heart — "  so  brave, 

And  plays  his  hymns  so  good." 


XXX 

The  pillars  of  the  Lord  are  seven, 

Which  stand  from  earth  to  topmost  heaven ; 

His  wisdom  drew  the  plan; 
His  Word  accomplished  the  design, 
From  brightest  gem  to  deepest  mine^ 

From  CHRIST  enthroned  to  Man, 


LONGER  POEMS  177 


XXXI 

Alpha,  the  cause  of  causes,  first 

In  station,  fountain,  whence  the  burst 

Of  light  and  blaze  of  day; 
Whence  bold  attempt,  and  brave  advance, 
Have  motion,  life,  and  ordinance, 

And  heaven  itself  its  stay. 


XXXII 

Gamma  supports  the  glorious  arch 
On  which  angelic  legions  march, 

And  is  with  sapphires  paved; 
Thence  the  fleet  clouds  are  sent  adrift, 
And  thence  the  painted  folds  that  lift 

The  crimson  veil,  are  waved. 


XXXIII 

Eta  with  living  sculpture  breathes, 
With  verdant  carvings,  flowery  wreaths, 

Of  never- wasting  bloom; 
In  strong  relief  his  goodly  base 
All  instruments  of  labour  grace, 

The  trowel,  spade,  and  loom. 


xxxiv 

Next  Theta  stands  to  the  Supreme — 
Who  formed  in  number,  sign,  and  scheme, 

The  illustrious  lights  that  are; 
And  one  addressed  his  saffron  robe, 
And  one,  clad  in  a  silver  globe, 

Held  rule  with  every  star. 


XXXV 

lota's  tuned  to  choral  hymns 

Of  those  that  fly,  while  he  that  swims 


178       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

In  thankful  safety  lurks ; 
And  foot,  and  chapiter,  and  niche, 
The  various  histories  enrich 

Of  God's  recorded  works. 


xxxvi 

Sigma  presents  the  social  droves 
With  him  that  solitary  roves, 

And  man  of  all  the  chief; 
Fair  on  whose  face,  and  stately  frame, 
Did  God  impress  His  hallowed  name, 

For  ocular  belief. 


XXXVII 

OMEGA  !  GREATEST  and  the  BEST, 
Stands  sacred  to  the  day  of  rest, 

For  gratitude  and  thought ; 
Which  blessed  the  world  upon  his  pole, 
And  gave  the  universe  his  goal, 

And  closed  the  infernal  draught. 


XXXVIII 

0  DAVID,  scholar  of  the  Lord ! 
Such  is  thy  science,  whence  reward, 

And  infinite  degree; 
O  strength,  0  sweetness,  lasting  ripe ! 
God's  harp  thy  symbol,  and  thy  type 

The  lion  and  the  bee ! 


XXXIX 

There  is  but  One  who  ne'er  rebelled, 
But  One  by  passion  unimpelled, 

By  pleasures  unenticed; 
He  from  himself  hath  semblance  sent, 
Grand  object  of  his  own  content, 

And  saw  the  God  in  CHRIST. 


LONGER  POEMS  179 


XL 

Tell  them,  I  AM,  JEHOVAH  said 

To  MOSES;  while  earth  heard:  in  dread. 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  "  O  LORD,  THOU  ART." 


XLI 

Thou  art — to  give  and  to  confirm, 
For  each  his  talent  and  his  term; 

All  flesh  thy  bounties  share: 
Thou  shalt  not  call  thy  brother  fool : 
The  porches  of  the  Christian  school 

Are  meekness,  peace,  and  prayer. 


XLII 

Open  and  naked  of  offence, 

Man's  made  of  mercy,  soul,  and  sense: 

God  armed  the  snail  and  wilk; 
Be  good  to  him  that  pulls  thy  plough; 
Due  food  and  care,  due  rest  allow 

For  her  that  yields  thee  milk. 


XLIII 

Rise  up  before  the  hoary  head, 

And  God's  benign  commandment  dread, 

Which  says  thou  shalt  not  die: 
"  Not  as  I  will,  but  as  Thou  wilt," 
Prayed  He,  whose  conscience  knew  no  guilt; 

With  Whose  blessed  pattern  vie. 


XLIV 

Use  all  thy  passions !  love  is  thine, 
And  joy,  and  jealousy  divine; 


i8o       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Thine  hope's  eternal  fort, 
And  care  thy  leisure  to  disturb 
With  fear  concupiscence  to  curb, 

And  rapture  to  transport. 


XLT 

Act  simply,  as  occasion  asks ; 

Put  mellow  wine  in  seasoned  casks; 

Till  not  with  ass  and  bull : 
Remember  thy  baptismal  bond; 
Keep  from  commixtures  foul  and  fond, 

Nor  work  thy  flax  with  wool. 


XL  VI 

Distribute;  pay  the  Lord  His  tithe, 

And  make  the  widow's  heart-strings  blithe; 

Resort  with  those  that  weep  : 
As  you  from  all  and  each  expect, 
For  all  and  each  thy  love  direct, 

And  render  as  you  reap. 


XLVII 

The  slander  and  its  bearer  spurn, 
And  propagating  praise  sojourn, 

To  make  thy  welcome  last; 
Turn  from  old  Adam  to  the  New: 
By  hope  futurity  pursue: 

Look  upwards  to  the  past. 


XLVIII 

Control  thine  eye,  salute  success, 
Honour  the  wiser,  happier  bless, 

And  for  their  neighbour  feel; 
Grutch  not  of  mammon  and  his  leaven, 
Work  emulation  up  to  heaven 

By  knowledge  and  by  zeal. 


LONGER  POEMS  181 


XLIX 

O  DAVID,  highest  in  the  list 

Of  worthies,  on  God's  ways  insist, 

The  genuine  word  repeat ! 
Vain  are  the  documents  of  men, 
And  vain  the  flourish  of  the  pen 

That  keeps  the  fool's  conceit. 


Praise  above  all — for  praise  prevails; 
Heap  up  the  measure,  load  the  scales, 

And  good  to  goodness  add : 
The  generous  soul  her  Saviour  aids, 
But  peevish  obloquy  degrades; 

The  Lord  is  great  and  glad. 


LI 

For  ADORATION  all  the  ranks 
Of  Angels  yield  eternal  thanks, 

And  David  in  the  midst: 
With  God's  good  poor,  which,  last  and  least 
In  man's  esteem,  Thou  to  Thy  feast, 

0  blessed  Bridegroom,  bidst. 


LII 

For  ADORATION  seasons  change, 
And  order,  truth,  and  beauty  range, 

Adjust,  attract,  and  fill: 
The  grass  the  polyanthus  checks; 
And  polished  porphyry  reflects, 

By  the  descending  rill. 


LIII 

Rich  almonds  colour  to  the  prime 
For  ADORATION;  tendrils  climb, 


182       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  fruit-trees  pledge  their  gems  ; 
And  I  vis,  with  her  gorgeous  vest, 
Builds  for  her  eggs  her  cunning  nest, 

And  bell-flowers  bow  their  stems. 


LIV 

With  vinous  syrup  cedars  spout; 
From  rocks  pure  honey  gushing  out, 

For  ADORATION  springs : 
All  scenes  of  painting  crowd  the  map 
Of  nature;  to  the  mermaid's  pap 

The  scaled  infant  clings. 


LV 

The  spotted  ounce  and  playsome  cubs 
Run  rustling  'mong  the  flowering  shrubs, 

And  lizards  feed  the  moss; 
For  ADORATION  beasts  embark, 
While  waves  upholding  halcyon's  ark 

No  longer  roar  and  toss. 


LVI 

While  Israel  sits  beneath  his  fig, 
With  coral  root  and  amber  sprig 

The  weaned  adventurer  sports; 
Where  to  the  palm  the  jasmine  cleaves, 
For  ADORATION  'mong  the  leaves 

The  gale  his  peace  reports. 


LVII 

Increasing  days  their  reign  exalt, 
Nor  in  the  pink  and  mottled  vault 

The  opposing  spirits  tilt; 
And  by  the  coasting  reader  spied, 
The  silverlings  and  crusions  glide 

For  ADORATION  gilt. 


LONGER   POEMS  183 


LVIII 

For  ADORATION  ripening  canes,, 
And  cocoa's  purest  milk  detains 

The  western  pilgrim's  staff; 
Where  rain  in  clasping  boughs  enclosed, 
And  vines  with  oranges  disposed, 

Embower  the  social  laugh. 


LIX 

Now  labour  his  reward  receives, 
For  ADORATION  counts  his  sheaves, 

To  peace,  her  bounteous  prince; 
The  nect'rine  his  strong  tint  imbibes, 
And  apples  of  ten  thousand  tribes, 

And  quick  peculiar  quince. 


LX 

The  wealthy  crops  of  whitening  rice 
'Mongst  thyine  woods  and  groves  of  spice, 

For  ADORATION  grow; 
And,  marshalled  in  the  fenced  land, 
The  peaches  and  pomegranates  stand, 

Where  wild  carnations  blow. 


LXI 

The  laurels  with  the  winter  strive ; 
The  crocus  burnishes  alive 

Upon  the  snow-clad  earth; 
For  ADORATION  myrtles  stay 
To  keep  the  garden  from  dismay, 

And  bless  the  sight  from  dearth. 


LXII 

The  pheasant  shows  his  pompous  neck; 

And  ermine,  jealous  of  a  speck, 
746 


184       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

With  fear  eludes  offence: 
The  sable,,  with  his  glossy  pride. 
For  ADORATION  is  descried, 

Where  frosts  the  waves  condense. 


LXIII 

The  cheerful  holly,  pensive  yew, 
And  holy  thorn,  their  trim  renew; 

The  squirrel  hoards  his  nuts; 
All  creatures  batten  o'er  their  stores, 
And  careful  nature  all  her  doors 

For  ADORATION  shuts. 


LXIV. 

For  ADORATION,  DAVID'S  Psalms 
Lift  up  the  heart  to  deeds  of  alms; 

And  he,  who  kneels  and  chants, 
Prevails  his  passions  to  control, 
Finds  meat  and  medicine  to  the  soul, 

Which  for  translation  pants. 


LXV 

For  ADORATION,  beyond  match, 
The  scholar  bullfinch  aims  to  catch 

The  soft  flute's  ivory  touch ; 
And,  careless,  on  the  hazel  spray 
The  daring  redbreast  keeps  at  bay 

The  damsel's  greedy  clutch. 


LXVI 

For  ADORATION,  in  the  skies, 
The  Lord's  philosopher  espies 

The  dog,  the  ram,  and  rose; 
The  planet's  ring,  Orion's  sword; 
Nor  is  his  greatness  less  adored 

In  the  vile  worm  that  glows. 


LONGER  POEMS  185 


LXVII 

For  ADORATION,  on  the  strings 

The  western  breezes  work  their  wings, 

The  captive  ear  to  soothe — 
Hark !  'tis  a  voice — how  still ,  and  small- 
That  makes  the  cataracts  to  fall, 

Or  bids  the  sea  be  smooth ! 


LXVIII 

For  ADORATION,  incense  comes 
From  bezoar,  and  Arabian  gums, 

And  from  the  civet's  fur: 
But  as  for  prayer,  or  e'er  it  faints, 
Far  better  is  the  breath  of  saints 

Than  galbanum  or  myrrh. 


LXIX 

For  ADORATION,  from  the  down 
Of  damsons  to  th'  anana's  crown, 

God  sends  to  tempt  the  taste; 
And  while  the  luscious  zest  invites 
The  sense,  that  in  the  scene  delights, 

Commands  desire  be  chaste. 


LXX 

For  ADORATION,  all  the  paths 
Of  grace  are  open,  all  the  baths, 

Of  purity  refresh; 
And  all  the  rays  of  glory  beam 
To  deck  the  man  of  God's  esteem, 

Who  triumphs  o'er  the  flesh. 


LXXI 

For  ADORATION,  in  the  dome 

Of  CHRIST,  the  sparrows  find  a  home ; 


i86       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  on  his  olives  perch; 
The  swallow  also  dwells  with  thee, 
0  man  of  GOD'S  humility, 

Within  his  Saviour's  CHURCH. 


LXXII 

Sweet  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes, 
And  drops  upon  the  leafy  limes ; 

Sweet,  Hermon's  fragrant  air : 
Sweet  is  the  lily's  silver  bell, 
And  sweet  the  wakeful  tapers'  smell 

That  watch  for  early  prayer. 


LXXIII 

Sweet  the  young  nurse,  with  love  intense, 
Which  smiles  o'er  sleeping  innocence; 

Sweet  when  the  lost  arrive : 
Sweet  the  musician's  ardour  beats, 
While  his  vague  mind's  in  quest  of  sweets, 

The  choicest  flowers  to  hive.        tO 


LXXIV 

Sweeter,  in  all  the  strains  of  love, 
The  language  of  thy  turtle-dove, 

Paired  to  thy  swelling  chord ; 
Sweeter,  with  every  grace  endued. 
The  glory  of  thy  gratitude 

Respired  unto  the  Lord. 


LXXV 

Strong  is  the  horse  upon  his  speed; 
Strong  in  pursuit  the  rapid  glede, 

Which  makes  at  once  his  game : 
Strong  the  tall  ostrich  on  the  ground ; 
Strong  through  the  turbulent  profound 

Shoots  Xiphias  to  his  aim. 


LONGER   POEMS  187 

LXXVI 

Strong  is  the  lion — like  a  coal 
His  eyeball — like  a  bastion's  mole 

His  chest  against  the  foes : 
Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail. 
Strong  against  tide  the  enormous  whale 

Emerges  as  he  goes. 


LXXVII 

But  stronger  still  in  earth  and  air, 
And  in  the  sea,  the  man  of  prayer, 

And  far  beneath  the  tide  : 
And  in  the  seat  to  faith  assigned, 
Where  ask  is  have,  where  seek  is  find, 

Where  knock  is  open  wide. 


LXXVIII 

Beauteous  the  fleet  before  the  gale; 
Beauteous  the  multitudes  in  mail, 

Ranked  arms,  and  crested  heads ; 
Beauteous  the  garden's  umbrage  mild, 
Walk,  water,  meditated  wild, 

And  all  the  bloomy  beds. 


LXXIX 

Beauteous  the  moon  full  on  the  lawn ; 
And  beauteous  when  the  veil's  withdrawn, 

The  virgin  to  her  spouse : 
Beauteous  the  temple,  decked  and  filled, 
When  to  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  build 

Their  heart -directed  vows. 


LXXX 

Beauteous,  yea  beauteous  more  than  these, 
The  Shepherd  King  upon  his  knees, 


188       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

For  his  momentous  trust; 
With  wish  of  infinite  conceit, 
For  man,  beast,  mute,  the  small  and  great, 

And  prostrate  dust  to  dust. 


LXXXI 

Precious  the  bounteous  widow's  mite; 
And  precious,  for  extreme  delight, 

The  largess  from  the  churl : 
Precious  the  ruby's  blushing  blaze, 
And  alba's  blest  imperial  rays. 

And  pure  cerulean  pearl. 


LXXXII 

Precious  the  penitential  tear; 
And  precious  is  the  sigh  sincere; 

Acceptable  to  God : 
And  precious  are  the  winning  flowers, 
In  gladsome  Israel's  feast  of  bowers, 

Bound  on  the  hallowed  sod. 


LXXXIII 

More  precious  that  diviner  part 

Of  David,  even  the  Lord's  own  heart, 

Great,  beautiful,  and  new; 
In  all  things  where  it  was  intent, 
In  all  extremes,  in  each  event, 

Proof — answering  true  to  true. 


LXXXIV 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career; 
Glorious  th'  assembled  fires  appear; 

Glorious  the  comet's  train: 
Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm ; 
Glorious  th'  Almighty's  stretched-out  arm ; 

Glorious  th'  enraptured  main: 


LONGER   POEMS  189 

LXXXV 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  a-stream; 
Glorious  the  song,  when  God's  the  theme ; 

Glorious  the  thunder's  roar: 
Glorious  Hosannah  from  the  den; 
Glorious  the  catholic  Amen; 

Glorious  the  martyr's  gore : 

LXXXVI 

Glorious,, — more  glorious,  is  the  crown 
Of  Him  that  brought  salvation  down, 

By  meekness  called  thy  Son : 
Thou  that  stupendous  truth  believed; — 
And  now  the  matchless  deed's  achieved, 

DETERMINED,  DARED,  and  DONE. 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


TAM  0'  SHANTER 

A   TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Buke. 

GAWIN  DOUGLAS. 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  1791,  in  a  book  entitled  Antiquities 
of  Scotland,  by  Captain  Grose.  In  the  preface  the  author  said:  "  To 
nay  irigenious  friend,  Mr.  Robert  Burns.  I  have  been  variously  obligated; 
he  was  not  only  at  the  pains  of  marking  out  what  was  worthy  of  notice 
in  Ayrshire,  the  county  honoured  by  his  birth,  but  he  also  wrote 
expressly  for  the  work,  the  pretty  tale  annexed  to  Alloway  Church." 
The  pretty  tale  was  Tarn  of  Shanter.  The  poem  was  composed  one 
afternoon  in  October,  1790,  whilst  the  poet  was  walking  by  the  banks 
of  the  river  EUisland.  Of  it  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  says:  "  This  is  in  many 
ways  the  strongest  and  maturest  of  all  his  works.  ...  In  Tarn  o' 
Shanter  Burns  surpasses  himself:  no  masterpiece  of  narrative  so 
concise,  so  various,  so  telling,  is  to  be  found  even  in  Chaucer.  Is  it 
not  a  strange  thing  that  the  king  of  poetic  story-tellers  told  only  one 
story?  " 

WHEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neibors  neibors  meet; 
As  market  days  are  wearing  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate, 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 


190       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Where  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  TAM  o'  SHANTER, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

0  Tarn!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  Miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  Smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday; 
She  prophesied  that  late  or  soon, 
Thou  wad  be  found,  deep  drown'd  in  Boon, 
Or  catch' d  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld,  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen' d,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale : — Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 


LONGER   POEMS  191 

And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  Landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet  and  precious : 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  Landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 


Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy. 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure : 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious ! 


But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever; 
Or  like  the  Borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 
Or  like  the  Rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  Time  nor  Tide, 
The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride; 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd  : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 


Weel-mounted  on  his  grey  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 


192       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'rin  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Where  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Where  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel'. 
Before  him  Boon  pours  all  his  floods, 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods, 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll, 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze, 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae,  we'll  face  the  devil ! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle, 
But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow !  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance: 
Nae  cotillon,  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  tousie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge: 


LONGER  POEMS  193 

He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  Dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  (by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight) 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light. 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes,  in  gibbet-airns; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted; 
Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft, 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 
Wi'  mair  of  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious; 
The  Piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew, 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linkit  at  it  in  her  sark ! 

Now  Tam,  0  Tam !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens ! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flainen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen ! — 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  aince  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  off  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies ! 
But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal; 
Louping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 


i94       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

But  Tam  kent  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie : 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  waulie 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore 
(For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear); 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 
Ah !  little  ken'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd : 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!  " 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  "  Catch  the  thief!  "  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreich  and  hollo, 

Ah,  Tam !  Ah,  Tam !  thou'll  get  thy  fairin ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 


LONGER  POEMS  195 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  o'  the  brig; 
There,  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross, 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle ! 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed : 
Whene'er  to  Drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  Cutty-sarks  rin  in  your  mind, 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear; 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


(ElUsland,  1790) 


PHOSBE  DAWSON 

Two  summers  since,  I  saw  at  Lammas  fair, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossomed  there; 
When  Phoebe  Dawson  gaily  crossed  the  green, 
In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen ; 
Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw,  admired, 
Courteous  though  coy,  and  gentle  though  retired ; 
The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  displayed, 
And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  conveyed ; 
A  native  skill  her  simple  robes  expressed, 
As  with  untutored  elegance  she  dressed; 
The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a  sight, 
And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 


196       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gained, 

Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retained ; 

Envy  itself  could  no  contempt  display, 

They  wished  her  well,  whom  yet  they  wished  away ; 

Correct  in  thought,  she  judged  a  servant's  place 

Preserved  a  rustic  beauty  from  disgrace; 

But  yet  on  Sunday-eve,  in  freedom's  hour, 

With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty's  power; 

When  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would  steal, 

That,  poor  or  rich,  a  beauty  still  must  feel. 

At  length,  the  youth  ordained  to  move  her  breast, 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  pressed ; 
With  looks  less  timid  made  his  passion  known, 
And  pleased  by  manners,  most  unlike  her  own ; 
Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though  young; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue ; 
By  trade  a  tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade, 
He  served  the  squire,  and  brushed  the  coat  he  made; 
Yet  now,  would  Phcebe  her  consent  afford, 
Her  slave  alone,  again  he'd  mount  the  board ; 
With  her  should  years  of  growing  love  be  spent, 
And  growing  wealth:  she  sighed  and  looked  consent. 

Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the  green- 
Seen  by  but  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid — 
Led  by  the  lover,  walked  the  silent  maid : 
Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they  many  a  mile. 
Toyed  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  stile; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 
And  highly  coloured  what  he  strongly  drew, 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimmed  the  false  prospect  with  prophetic  tears: 
Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till,  lingering  late, 
The  lover  loitered  at  the  master's  gate; 
There  he  pronounced  adieu!  and  yet  would  stay, 
Till  chidden — soothed — entreated — forced  away! 
He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  complain. 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again; 
When,  if  his  teasing  vexed  her  gentle  mind, 
The  grief  assumed  compelled  her  to  be  kind ! 
For  he  would  proof  of  plighted  kindness  crave, 
That  she  resented  first,  and  then  forgave, 
And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more 


LONGER  POEMS  197 

Than  his  presumption  had  required  before: 

Ah!  fly  temptation,  youth;  refrain!  refrain! 
Each  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming  swain ! 

Lo !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
And  torn  green  gown  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 
One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 
And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains ; 
Pinched  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread, 
Whose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are  fled ; 
Pale  her  parched  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low, 
And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow; 
Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again; 
Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 
And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 
For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 
But  nearer  cause  her  anxious  soul  alarms ; 
With  water  burdened  then  she  picks  her  way, 
Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay; 
Till,  in  mid-green,  she  trusts  a  place  unsound, 
And  deeply  plunges  in  the  adhesive  ground; 
Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she  takes, 
While  hope  the  mind  as  strength  the  frame  forsakes; 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows, 
Add  but  a  drop,  it  instantly  overflows. 
And  now  her  path  but  not  her  peace  she  gains, 
Safe  from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her  pains; 
Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door, 
And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor, 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits, 
And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits; 
In  vain,  they  come,  she  feels  the  inflating  grief, 
That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief; 
That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distressed, 
Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repressed ; 
The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  flies 
With  all  her  aid  her  poverty  supplies; 
Unfee'd,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys, 
Not  led  by  profit,  not  allured  by  praise ; 
And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 
She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 

Friend  of  distress !  the  mourner  feels  thy  aid; 
She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid* 


igS       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want,  and  care? 
'Tis  Phcebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  fair; 
Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes, 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies : 
Compassion  first  assailed  her  gentle  heart 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom's  smart: 
"  And  then  his  prayers!  they  would  a  savage  move, 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love:  " 
But  ah !  too  soon  his  looks  success  declared, 
Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage-rite  repaired; 
The  faithless  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 
A  captious  tyrant  or  a  noisy  sot: 
If  present,  railing  till  he  saw  her  pained ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gained ; 
Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined, 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

Then  fly  temptation,  youth ;  resist !  refrain ! 

Nor  let  me  preach  for  ever  and  in  vain ! 

GEORGE  CRABBE. 


MICHAEL 

A   PASTORAL   POEM1 

IF  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead  Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle;  in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 
But,  courage !  for  around  that  boisterous  brook 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  can  be  seen;  but  they 

1  Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere,  about  the  same  time  as  "The 
Brothers."  The  Sheepfold,  on  which  so  much  of  the  poem  turns, 
remains,  or  rather  the  ruins  of  it.  The  character  and  circumstances 
of  Luke  were  taken  from  a  family  to  whom  had  belonged,  many  years 
before,  the  house  we  lived  in  at  Town-end,  along  with  some  fields  and 
woodlands  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Grasmere.  The  name  of  the  Evening 
Star  was  not  in  fact  given  to  this  house,  but  to  another  on  the  same 
side  of  the  valley,  more  to  the  north. 


LONGER  POEMS  199 

Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and  kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.   Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones ! 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
A  story — unenriched  with  strange  events, 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside, 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.   It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved;  not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 
Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 
Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength :  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  He  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 


200       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 

Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 

"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me!  " 

And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that  drives 

The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 

Up  to  the  mountains:   he  had  been  alone 

Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 

That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the  heights. 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 

And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 

That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks, 

Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's  thoughts. 

Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 

The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vigorous  step 

He  had  so  often  climbed;  which  had  impressed 

So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 

Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 

Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 

The  certainty  of  honourable  gain ; 

Those  fields,  those  hills — what  could  they  less  ?  had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :  two  wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form ;  this  large,  for  spinning  wool ; 
That  small,  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's  phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.  This  only  Son, 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.   I  may  truly  say, 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.   When  day  was  gone, 


LONGER  POEMS  201 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then. 

Their  labour  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 

Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk, 

Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.   Yet  when  the  meal 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 

And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 

To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 

Their  hands  by  the  fireside;  perhaps  to  card 

Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 

Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
With  huge  and  black  projection  overbrowed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  lamp; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn — and  late, 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 
Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 
And  left,  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes, 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sate, 
Father  and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 
That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.   For,  as  it  chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 


202       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  THE  EVENING  S?AR. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood  of  all — 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man. 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy!  For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness ;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle,  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love, 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young-one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's  stool 
Sate  with  a  fettered  sheep  before  him  stretched 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door 
Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth  of  shade, 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  CLIPPING  TREE/  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 
And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old ; 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
1  Clipping  is  the  word  used  in  the  North  of  England  for  shearing. 


LONGER   POEMS  203 

With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 

With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 

Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff,, 

And  gave  it  to  the  Boy;  wherewith  equipt 

He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 

At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 

And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 

There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 

Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help; 

And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 

Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise ; 

Though  nought  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice, 

Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts;  and  to  the  heights, 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  Boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations — things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind; 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born  again? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up: 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.   Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means ; 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  prest  upon  him ;  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.   This  unlooked-for  claim, 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with  strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 


204       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.   "  Isabel."  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news; 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived :  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot ;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.  An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.   I  forgive  him; — but 
Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.   We  have,  thou  know'st, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.   He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall  go, 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.    If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done  ?   Where  every  one  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained?  " 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused. 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself, 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence 
And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbours  bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedlar's  wares ; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there; 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 


LONGER  POEMS  205 

To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich. 
And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor. 
And,  at  his  birth-place,  built  a  chapel,  floored 
With  marble  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.   The  old  Man  was  glad, 
And  thus  resumed: — "  Well,  Isabel!  this  scheme 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
— We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger ; — but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
— Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 
— If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night." 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.   The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work:  for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep: 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.   That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "  Thou  must  not  go: 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 
The  Youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.    That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring;  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 


206       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy; 
To  which,,  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.   Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbours  round : 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.   When  Isobel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 
"'He  shall  depart  to-morrow."   To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.   But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheepfold;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked  : 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped; 
And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him: — "  My  Son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me :  with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  touch 

On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of. After  thou 

First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.   Day  by  day  passed  on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune; 
While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.   Month  followed  month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains;  else  I  think  that  thou 


LONGER  POEMS  207 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke:  among  these  hills, 

As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart;  but  at  these  words 

He  sobbed  aloud.   The  old  Man  grasped  his  hand, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 

— Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 

A  kind  and  a  good  Father:  and  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  others'  hands ;  for,  though  now  old 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived, 

As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done;  and  when 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wished  that  thou  should'st  live  the  life  they  lived : 

But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burthened  when  they  came  to  me; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

— It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  Master.   Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  should'st  go." 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused; 

Then  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us;  and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.   But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.   At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale; — do  thou  thy  part; 
I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee : 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 


208       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless  thee,  Boy ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes ;  it  should  be  so — yes — yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  could'st  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love :  when  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us!— But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.   Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
And  of  this  moment;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.   Now,  fare  thee  well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stooped  down, 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheepfold.   At  the  sight 
The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
— Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell : — with  morrow's  dawn  the  Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  neighbours,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  Housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 


LONGER   POEMS  209 

So,  many  months  passed  on :  and  once  again 

The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 

With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts ;  and  now 

Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 

He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 

Wrought  at  the  Sheepfold.   Meantime  Luke  began 

To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and,  at  length, 

He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 

To  evil  courses :  ignominy  and  shame 

Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 

To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love  ; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart: 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.   Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and  cloud, 
And  listened  to  the  wind;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.   'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  Man — and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  by  the  Sheepfold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 
He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheepfold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  Husband :  at  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  EVENING  STAR 
Is  gone — the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have  been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighbourhood : — yet  the  oak  is  left 


210        THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheepfold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Greenhead  Ghyll. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

(1800) 


LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN 
ABBEY,  ON  REVISITING  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
WYE  DURING  A  TOUR.  JULY  13,  1798  1 

FIVE  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.1 — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.   Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :   these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

1  No  poem  of  mine  was  composed  under  circumstances  more  pleasant 
for  me  to  remember  than  this.    I  began  it  upon  leaving  Tintern,  after 
crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  as  I  was  entering  Bristol  in  the 
evening,  after  a  ramble  of  four  or  five  days,  with  my  Sister.    Not  a 
line  of  it  was  altered,  and  not  any  part  of  it  written  down  till  I  reached 
Bristol.     It  was  published  almost  immediately  after  in  the  Lyrical 
Ballads. 

2  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few  miles  above  Tintern. 


LONGER   POEMS  211 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure :  such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.   Nor  less,  I  trust. 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,— 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — • 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye !  thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 


212       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For  future  years.   And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 

Though    changed,    no    doubt,   from    what  I   was   when 

first 

I  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.   For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.   The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion:  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.   Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompence.   For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.   And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.   Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 


LONGER   POEMS  213 

Of  eye,  and  ear,, — both  what  they  half  create,1 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.   Oh!  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues,. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men^ 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.   Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee:  and;  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh !  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

1  This  line  has  a  close  resemblance  to  an  admirable  line  of  Young's, 
the  exact  expression  of  which  I  do  not  recollect. 


214        THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  these  my  exhortations !  Nor,  perchance — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature;  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love — oh !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.   Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

(1798) 


CHRISTABEL 

PART  THE   FIRST 

:Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock, 

Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 

And  hark,  again !  the  crowing  cock. 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 


LONGER  POEMS  215 

The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full: 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  grey: 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late; 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 
And  nought  was  green  upon  the  oak 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill;  the  forest  bare; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

H  746 


216      THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone: 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare; 

Her  blue- veined  feet  unsandal'd  were, 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now ! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thou  ? 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet: — 

Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear ! 

Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet, 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet: — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine : 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white: 

And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 


LONGER  POEMS  217 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke: 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak ; 

He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste; 

Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she), 

And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 


Then  Chris tabel  stretched  forth  her  hand, 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine : 

O  well,  bright  dame !  may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  vour  noble  father's  hall. 


She  rose :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel: 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth, 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 


2i8       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate : 
Then  the  lady  rose  again, 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  lady  by  her  side, 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress ! 

Alas,  alas !  said  Geraldine, 

I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch: l 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying;        » 

But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye, 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 

Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 

O  softly  tread,  said  Christabel, 

My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 
And  jealous  of  the  listening  air 

1  Screech. 


LONGER  POEMS  219 

They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room, 
As  still  as  death,  with  stifled  breath ! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 


The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet: 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 


The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim ; 

But  Chris tabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel  answered — Woe  is  me ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  have  heard  the  grey-haired  friar  tell 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear !  that  thou  wert  here ! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were ! 


220       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 
"  Off,,  wandering  mother!  Peak  and  pine! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she; 
"  Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
Off,  woman,  off !  'tis  given  to  me." 

Then  Chris tabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
Alas !  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady !  it  hath  wildered  you ! 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'tis  over  now!  " 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank: 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright: 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 

"  All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 

Do  love  you,  holy  Chris  tabel ! 

And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 

And  for  the  good  which  me  befel, 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 

Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 


LONGER   POEMS  221 

That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose,, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast: 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 

0  shield  her !  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs; 
Ah !  what  a  striken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay,1 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay; 
Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied, 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day ! 

And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say: 

"  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow, 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard' st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found' st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair; 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love  and  in  charity. 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air." 

1  Attempt. 


222       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 


THE   CONCLUSION   TO   PART   THE   FIRST 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 
To  make  her  gentle  vows; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 
With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
0  sorrow  and  shame !  Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree  ? 
And  lo !  the  worker  of  these  harms, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine !  since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

O  Geraldine !  one  hour  was  thine — 

Thou'st  had  thy  will !  By  tairn  and  rill, 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu — whoo !  tu — whoo ! 

Tu — whoo !  tu — whoo !  from  wood  and  fell ! 

And  see !  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes;  and  tears  she  sheds — 


LONGER  POEMS  223 

Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 
Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 
Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere, 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call  : 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 
(i797) 


PART   THE   SECOND 

Each  matin  bell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead  : 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell, 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 
Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair, 
And  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 


224       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'other, 
The  death-note  to  their  living  brother; 
And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended, 
Just  as  their  one !  two !  three !  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud ; 
And  Geraldine  shakes  off  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white, 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight, 
And  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell 
Awakens  the  lady  Chris tabel. 
"  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 

The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 

O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 

Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree ! 

Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  more  fair ! 

For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 

Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep ! 

And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air, 

Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 

That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 

Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 

"  Sure  I  have  sinn'd!  "  said  Christabel, 

"  Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well!  " 

And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet, 

Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 

With  such  perplexity  of  mind 

As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan, 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown, 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 


LONGER  POEMS  225 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 
And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom, 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine  espies, 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same, 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale, 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again, 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas!  they  had  been  friends  in  youth; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  * 

And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above; 

And  life  is  thorny;  and  youth  is  vain; 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 

With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 

Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 

They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again ! 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face: 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 


226       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

0  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 

His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide, 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they,  who  thus  had  wronged  the  dame, 

Were  base  as  spotted  infamy ! 

"  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 

My  tourney  court — that  there  and  then 

1  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men!  " 
He  spake:  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls ! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized;  and  he  kenned 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 

Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 

Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 

Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain ! 

She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  and  saw  again — 

(Ah,  woe  is  me !  Was  it  for  thee, 

Thou  gentle  maid!  such  sights  to  see?) 

Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound : 

Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round, 

And  nothing  saw,  but  his  own  sweet  maid 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
Which  comforted  her  after-rest, 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 
And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 


LONGER  POEMS  227 

"  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child?  " 
The  Baron  said — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer ,  "  All  will  yet  be  well !  " 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 


Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended; 
As  if  she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 

Nay,  by  my  soul!  "  said  Leoline. 
"  Ho!  Bracy  the  bard,  the  charge  be  thine! 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 
And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'st  best 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad, 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 

"  And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing  flood, 

My  merry  bard !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 

Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth  Wood, 

And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 

Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's  wastes. 

"  Bard  Bracy!  bard  Bracy!  your  horses  are  fleet, 

Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so  sweet, 

More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 

And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 

Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 

Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free — 

Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 

He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 

With  all  thy  numerous  array; 


228       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home: 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam : 
And,  by  mine  honour !  I  will  say, 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
When  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine ! — 
— For  since  the  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
Many  a  summer's  sun  hath  shone; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine." 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees, 

Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflowing; 

And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 

His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing; 

"  Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christabel, 

Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell; 

Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 

This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 

So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me; 

That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 

To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 

Warn'd  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 

For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 

That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love, 

And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name — 

Sir  Leoline !  I  saw  the  same, 

Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 

Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 

Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 

I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird; 

For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 

Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath  the  old  tree. 

"  And  in  my  dream,  methought,  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peered,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry; 


LONGER   POEMS  229 

But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 

I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove  to  take, 

When  lo !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 

Coiled  around  its  wings  and  neck, 

Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched, 

Close  by  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouched; 

And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs, 

Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swelled  hers ! 

I  woke;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 

The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower; 

But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 

This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away — 

It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye ! 

And  thence  I  vowed  this  self-same  day 

With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 

To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 

Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there." 

Thus  Bracy  said :  the  Baron,  the  while, 

Half-listening  heard  him  with  a  smile ; 

Then  turned  to  Lady  Geraldine, 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love; 

And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 

"  Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beauteous  dove, 

With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song, 

Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake!  " 

He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 

And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise 

Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 

With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 

She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline; 

Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 

That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again; 

And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 

And  couched  her  head  upon  her  breast, 

And  looked  askance  at  Christabel 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 


A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 

And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her  head, 

Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  with  somewhat  of  malice,  and  more  of  dread, 

At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance! — 


230       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled ! 
But  Christabel  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 
And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief, 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 
She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas !  her  thoughts  are  gone, 

She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but  one ! 

The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise, 

So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 

That  all  her  features  were  resigned 

To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind : 

And  passively  did  imitate 

That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate  1 

And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 

Still  picturing  that  look  askance 

With  forced  unconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue ! 

And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  awhile,  and  inly  prayed : 
Then  falling  at  the  Baron's  feet, 
"  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  woman  send  away !  " 
She  said :  and  more  she  could  not  say : 
For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'er-mastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 

Sir  Leoline  ?  Thy  only  child 

Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 

So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild; 

The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died ! 

0,  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother 


LONGER  POEMS  231 

Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died : 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died, 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy  and  pride! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child, 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 


Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain 

If  thoughts,  like  these,  had  any  share, 

They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  pain, 

And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 

His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage, 

His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were  wild, 

Dishonour' d  thus  in  his  old  age; 

Dishonour 'd  by  his  only  child, 

And  all  his  hospitality 

To  the  insulted  daughter  of  his  friend 

By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 

Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 

He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 

And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere — 

"  Why,  Bracy !  dost  thou  loiter  here  ? 

I  bade  thee  hence!  "  The  bard  obeyed; 

And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 

The  ag£d  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 

Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine ! 

(1801) 


THE   CONCLUSION   TO   PART   THE   SECOND 

A  little  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 
That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light; 


232       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 
Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


GLENFINLAS;   OR,  LORD  RONALD'S  CORONACH1 

The  simple  tradition,  upon  which  the  following  stanzas  are  founded, 
runs  thus:  While  two  Highland  hunters  were  passing  the  night  in  a 
solitary  bothy  (a  hut,  built  for  the  purpose  of  hunting),  and  making 
merry  over  their  venison  and  whisky,  one  of  them  expressed  a  wish 
that  they  had  pretty  lasses  to  complete  their  party.  The  words  were 
scarcely  uttered,  when  two  beautiful  young  women,  habited  in  green, 
entered  the  hut,  dancing  and  singing. "  One  of  the  hunters  was  seduced 
by  the  siren  who  attached  herself  particularly  to  him,  to  leave  the  hut : 
the  other  remained,  and,  suspicious  of  the  fair  seducers,  continued  to 
play  upon  a  trump,  or  Jew's  harp,  some  strain,  consecrated  to  the 
Virgin  Mary.  Day  at  length  came,  and  the  temptress  vanished.  Search- 
ing in  the  forest,  he  found  the  bones  of  his  unfortunate  friend,  who  had 
been  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured  by  the  fiend  into  whose  toils  he  had 
fallen.  The  place  was  from  thence  called  the  Glen  of  the  Green  Women. 

Glenfinlas  is  a  tract  of  forest -ground,  lying  in  the  Highlands  of 
Perthshire,  not  far  from  Callender  in  Menteith.  It  was  formerly  a  royal 
forest,  and  now  belongs  to  the  Earl  of  Moray.  This  country,  as  well  as 
the  adjacent  district  of  Balquidder,  was,  in  times  of  yore,  chiefly 
inhabited  by  the  Macgregors.  To  the  west  of  the  Forest  of  Glenfinlas 
lies  Loch  Katrine,  and  its  romantic  avenue,  called  the  Trossachs. 
Benledi,  Benmore,  and  Benvoirlich,  are  mountains  in  the  same  district, 
and  at  no  great  distance  from  Glenfinlas.  The  river  Teith  passes  Cal- 
lender and  the  Castle  of  Doune,  and  joins  the  Forth  near  Stirling.  The 
pass  of  Lenny  is  immediately  above  Callender,  and  is  the  principal 

1  Coronach  is  the  lamentation  for  a  deceased  warrior,  sung  by  the 
aged  of  the  clan. 


LONGER  POEMS  233 

access  to  the  Highlands  from  that  town.    Glenartney  is  a  forest,  near 
Benvoirlich.   The  whole  forms  a  sublime  tract  of  Alpine  scenery. 
This  ballad  first  appeared  in  the  Tales  of  Wonder. 

For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey, 

Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair; 
They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormful  day, 
And  heartless  oft,  like  moody  madness  stare, 
To  see  the  phantom-train  their  secret  work  prepare. 

COLLINS. 
"  0  hone  a  rie' !  0  hone  a  rie' ! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree; 
We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more!  " — 

0,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 

The  chief  that  never  fear'd  a  foe. 
How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore. 

How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow ! 

Well  can  the  Saxon 1  widows  tell,   . 

How,,  on  the  Teith's  resounding  shore, 
The  boldest  Lowland  warriors  fell. 

As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  you  bore. 

But  o'er  his  hills,  in  festal  day, 

How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  beltane-tree, 

While  youths  and  maids  the  light  strathspey 
So  nimbly  danced  with  Highland  glee ! 

Cheer 'd  by  the  strength  of  Ronald's  shell, 

E'en  age  forgot  his  tresses  hoar ; 
But  now  the  loud  lament  we  swell, 

0  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came, 

The  joys  of  Ronald's  halls  to  find, 
And  chase  with  him  the  dark-brown  game, 

That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

'Twas  Moy;  whom  in  Columba's  isle 

The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found, 
As,  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while, 

He  waked  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

1  The  term  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  is  applied  by  the  Highlanders  to 
their  Low-Country  neighbours. 


234       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known,, 
Which  wandering  spirits  shrink  to  hear; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone, 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 


For  there,  'tis  said,  in  mystic  mood, 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold, 

And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud, 

That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 

0  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  Chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 

And  scour' d  the  deep  Glenfmlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait  their  sports  to  aid, 

To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board; 

Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid, 
Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 

Three  summer  days,  through  brake  and  dell, 
Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew; 

And  still,  when  dewy  evening  fell, 
The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 

In  grey  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

The  solitary  cabin  stood, 
Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook, 

Which  murmurs  through  that  lonely  wood. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 

Steep' d  heathy  bank,  and  mossy  stone. 

The  moon,  half-hid  in  silvery  flakes, 
Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 

Quivering  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes, 
And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 


LONGER  POEMS  235 

Now  in  their  hut,  in  social  guise, 

Their  silvan  fare  the  Chiefs  enjoy; 
And  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 

As  many  a  pledge  he  quaffs  to  Moy. 


"  What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high? 

What,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss, 
Her  panting  breath  and  melting  eye  ? 

"  To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades, 
This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 

The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids, 
The  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 

"  Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart, 
And  dropp'd  the  tear,  and  heaved  the  sigh: 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art, 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 

"  But  thou  mayst  teach  that  guardian  fair, 
While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 

Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 
And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

'  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shalt  see 

The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle, 
Unmindful  of  her  charge  and  me, 

Hang  on  thy  notes,  'twixt  tear  and  smile. 

"  Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale, 
All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough, 

Will  good  St.  Oran's  rule  prevail, 

Stern  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow?  " — 

"  Since  Enrick's  fight,  since  Morna's  death, 
No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise, 

Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 
Or  yielding  kiss,  or  melting  eyes. 


236       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

"E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  woe, 
Where  sunk  my  hopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  bade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  flow, 
On  me  the  Seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

"  The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heaven, 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  woe, 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy  was  given — 
The  gift,  the  future  ill  to  know. 


"  The  bark  thou  saw'st,  yon  summer  morn, 

So  gaily  part  from  Oban's  bay, 
My  eye  beheld  her  dash'd  and  torn, 

Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

"  Thy  Fergus  too — thy  sister's  son, 
Thou  saw'st,  with  pride,  the  gallant's  power, 

As  marching  'gainst  the  Lord  of  Downe, 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

"  Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans  wave, 
As  down  Benvoirlich's  side  they  wound, 

Heard'st  but  the  pibroch,  answering  brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 

"  I  heard  the  groans,  I  mark'd  the  tears, 

I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore, 
When  on  the  serried  Saxon  spears 

He  pour'd  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

"  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee, 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss — 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee ! 

"  I  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow; 

I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry; 
The  corpse-lights  dance — they're  gone,  and  now- 

No  more  is  given  to  gifted  eye!  " — 


LONGER   POEMS  237 

"  Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary  dreams, 

Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour ! 
Say,  should  we  scorn  joy's  transient  beams, 

Because  to-morrow's  storm  may  lour? 


"  Or  false,  or  sooth,  thy  words  of  woe, 
Clangillian's  Chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear; 

His  blood  shall  bound  at  rapture's  glow, 
Though  doom'd  to  stain  the  Saxon  spear. 

"  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell, 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew." 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  Chief  farewell, 
But  called  his  dogs,  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  return'd  each  hound; 

In  rush'd  the  rousers  of  the  deer; 
They  howl'd  in  melancholy  sound, 

Then  closely  couch'd  beside  the  Seer. 

No  Ronald  yet;  though  midnight  came, 
And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams, 

As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  flame, 

He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quivering  gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears, 
And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl ; 

Close  press' d  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  fears 
By  shivering  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouch'd,  the  harp  began  to  ring, 
As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door; 

And  shook  responsive  every  string, 
As  light  a  footstep  press' d  the  floor. 

And  by  the  watch-fire's  glimmering  light. 

Close  by  the  minstrel's  side  was  seen 
An  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright, 

All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 


238       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem ; 

Chill'd  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam, 

She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 


With  maiden  blush,  she  softly  said, 
"  0  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green : 

"  With  her  a  Chief  in  Highland  pride; 

His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 
The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side, 

Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow?  " — 


"  And  who  art  thou?  and  who  are  they?  " 

All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied  : 
"  And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side?  " — 

"  Where  wild  Loch  Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isle, 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side, 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"  To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer, 
Our  woodland  course  this  morn  we  bore, 

And  haply  met,  while  wandering  here, 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

"  O  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair, 
Whom,  loitering  in  the  woods,  I  lost; 

Alone,  I  dare  not  venture  there, 

Where  walks,  they  say,  the  shrieking  ghost. "- 

"  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there; 

Then,  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer, 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortals  sleep." — 


LONGER  POEMS  239 

"  O  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 

Guide  a  lone  wanderer  on  her  way ! 
For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake, 

And  reach  my  father's  towers  ere  day." — 


"  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave-bead, 
And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say; 

Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  rede; 
So  shall  we  safely  wend  our  way." — 

"  O  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

"  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire, 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy, 

When  gaily  rung  thy  raptured  lyre 
To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye." 

Wild  stared  the  minstrel's  eyes  of  flame, 

And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 
And  quick  his  colour  went  and  came, 

As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

"  And  thou !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 

I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resign'  d, 
Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke, 

Or  sail'd  ye  on  the  midnight  wind  ? 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line; 

Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood — 
Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

He  mutter' d  thrice  St.  Oran's  rhyme, 
And  thrice  St.  Fillan's  powerful  prayer; 

Then  turn'd  him  to  the  eastern  clime, 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 


240       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind; 

And  loud,  and  high,  and  strange,  they  rung, 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 

Tall  wax'd  the  Spirit's  altering  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell  away  she  flew. 

Rain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear: 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale, 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise; 

High  o'er  the  minstrel's  head  they  sail, 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood, 
As  ceased  the  more  than  mortal  yell ; 

And,  spattering  foul,  a  shower  of  blood 
Upon  the  hissing  firebrands  fell. 

Next  dropp'd  from  high  a  mangled  arm; 

The  fingers  strain'd  an  half-drawn  blade. 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm, 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head,  in  battling  field, 

Stream'd  the  proud  crest  of  high  Benmore; 

That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield, 
Which  dyed  the  Teith  with  Saxon  gore. 

Woe  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills! 

Woe  to  Glenfinlas'  dreary  glen ! 
There  never  son  of  Albin's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter's  shaft  agen. 

E'en  the  tired  pilgrim's  burning  feet 
At  noon  shall  shun  that  sheltering  den, 

Lest,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 
The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 


LONGER  POEMS  241 

And  we — behind  the  Chieftain's  shield, 

No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell; 
None  leads  the  people  to  the  field — 

And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

0  hone  a  rie' !  0  hone  a  rie? ! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er! 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 

"  The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  under  the  Prime  Vizier, 
to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form 
the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all 
that  country,1  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack  Corinth, 
upon  which  they  made  several  storms.  The  garrison  being  weakened, 
and  the  governor  seeing  it  was  impossible  to  hold  put  against  so  mighty 
a  force,  thought  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley:  but  while  they  were  treating 
about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  in  the  Turkish  camp,  wherein 
they  had  six  hundred  barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby 
six  or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed;  which  so  enraged  the  infidels, 
that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitulation,  but  stormed  the  place 
with  so  much  fury,  that  they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison, 
with  Signior  Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with 
Antonio  Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made  prisoners  of 
war." — History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 

IN  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men, 

Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten, 

We  were  a  gallant  company, 

Riding  o'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea. 

Oh !  but  we  went  merrily ! 

We  forded  the  river,. and  clomb  the  high  hill, 

Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still; 

1  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in  the 
Morea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  the  Pacha  resides,  and  maintains  his 
government.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I  visited  all  three  in  1801-11; 
and,  in  the  course  of  journeying  through  the  country  from  my  first 
arrival  in  1809,  I  crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  in  my  way  from 
Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction, 
when  passing  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto.  Both  the 
routes  are  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though  very  different:  that  by 
sea  has  more  sameness;  but  the  voyage  being  always  within  sight  of 
land,  and  often  very  near  it,  presents  many  attractive  views  of  the 
islands  Salamis,  ^Egina,  Poro,  etc.,  and  the  coast  of  the  Continent. 


242       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed, 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed; 

Whether  we  couch' d  in  our  rough  capote, 

On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat, 

Or  stretch' d  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  spread 

As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head, 

Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow: 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope, 

Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 

We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds ; — 

Some  were  those  who  counted  beads, 

Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither; 

Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search, 

Nor  find  a  motlier  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 

And  some  are  scatter'd  and  alone, 

And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills  1 

That  look  along  Epirus'  valleys, 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  rallies, 

And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  ills ; 

And  some  are  in  a  far  countree, 

And  some  are  restlessly  at  home; 

But  never  more,  oh !  never,  we 

Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  when  they  now  fall  drearily, 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main, 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A  wild  bird  and  a  \yanderer. 

'Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger — wilt  thou  follow  now, 

And  sit  with  me  on  Aero-Corinth's  brow? 

1  The  last  tidings  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one  of  the  Arnaouts 
who  followed  me)  state  him  to  be  in  revolt  upon  the  mountains,  at 
the  head  of  k>me  of  the  bands  common  in  that  country  in  times  of 
trouble. 


LONGER  POEMS  243 


Many  a  vanish' d  year  and  age, 

And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage, 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth;  yet  she  stands, 

A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands.1 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Have  left  un touch' d  her  hoary  rock, 

The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  still. 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill, 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled,2 

Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'er  flow 

Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below: 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 

Who  perish' d  there,  be  piled  again, 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  tower-capp'd  Acropolis, 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 


it 

On  dun  Cithaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  3  advance 

1  In  the  original  MS.:    "  A  marvel  from  her  Moslem  bands." 
2Timoleon,  who  had  saved  the  life  of  his  brother  Timophanes  in 

battle,   afterwards  killed  him  for  aiming  at  the  supreme  power  in 

Corinth,  preferring  his  duty  to  his  country  to  all  the  obligations  of 

blood. 

'Turkish  holders  of  military  fiefs,  which  oblige  them  to  join  the 

army,  mounted  at  their  own  expense. 


244       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Beneath  each  bearded  pacha's  glance; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban' d  cohorts  throng  the  beach; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels, 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd/ 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies, 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 


in 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art, 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood ; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sultan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 
Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade; — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade ! 

1  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patriarchal:    they 
dwell  in  tents. 


LONGER  POEMS  245 

IV 

From  Venice — once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

The  arms  they  taught  to  bear;  and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass'd 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last ; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 

He  stood  a  foe  with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel, 

Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 

The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 

Her  ancient  civic  boast — "  the  Free  "  ; 

And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 

Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 

Within  the  *'  Lion's  mouth  "  had  placed 

A  charge  against  him  uneffaced : 

He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life, 

To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 

That  taught  his  land  How  great  his  loss 

In  him  who  triumph' d  o'er  the  Cross, 

'Gainst  which  he  rear  d  the  Crescent  high, 

And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 


Coumourgi l — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorn' d  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlo witz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain, 

1  Ali  Coumourgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand  Vizier 
to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from  the  Venetians  in 
one  campaign,  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Germans, 
at  the  battle  of  Peterwardin  (in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz),  in  Hungary, 
endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He  died  of  his  wounds  next  day. 
His  last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General  Breuner,  and  some 
other  German  prisoners;  and  his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could  thus 
serve  all  the  Christian  dogs!  "  a  speech  and  act  not  unlike  one  of 
Caligula.  He  was  a  young  man  of  great  ambition  and  unbounded 
presumption:  on  being  told  that  Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed  to  him, 
"  was  a  great  general,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  become  a  greater,  and  at  his 
expense." 


246       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 
But  cursed  the  Christian  victory — 
Coumourgi — can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 
A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  he  refixed  the  Moslem's  sway. 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levell'd  with  the  dust; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 


VI 

The  walls  grew  weak;  and  fast  and  hot 

Against  them  pour'd  the  ceaseless  shot, 

With  unabating  fury  sent 

From  battery  to  battlement; 

And  thunder-like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin; 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb; 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breathr 

In  red  and  wreathing  columns  flash'd 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash' d, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven, 

Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun, 

Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun, 

With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 

To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 


VII 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay'd, 
Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade, 
The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 
His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach: 


LONGER  POEMS  247 

Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire. 
Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 
When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 
Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 
In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 
While  unimpeach'd  for  traitorous  crime, 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall, 
He  glitter'd  through  the  Carnival; 
And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e'er  on  Adria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid. 


VIII 

And  many  deem'd  her  heart  was  won; 
For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 
Had  young  Francesca's  hand  remain'd 
Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchain'd: 
And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore, 
Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 
And  pensive  wax'd  the  maid  and  pale; 
More  constant  at  confessional, 
More  rare  at  masque  and  festival; 
Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 
Which  conquer'd  hearts  they  ceased  to  prize : 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze: 
With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song; 
Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning's  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 


IX 

Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land, 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand, 
While  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
i  746 


248       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Eubcea's  bay,) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
Smiled  o'er  her  long-forgotten  Greece; 
And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke, 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adorn 'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 


The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn; 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn, 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault. 
The  bands  are  rank'd;  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  "  forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse, 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone — the  last  who  dies ! 


XI 


'Tis  midnight:  on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down; 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining 
And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining, 


LONGER  POEMS  249 

Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away, 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air; 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 

But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves; 

The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 

And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill, 

And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill, 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host, 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain: 

'Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 

It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear, 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 

Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 

Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 

Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed; 

Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 

Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 


XII 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore; 

The  sound  was  hush'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er; 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd : 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night, 


250       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o'er  the  cross, 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss, 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally: 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone — a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betray'd; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand : 

They  followed  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave; 

They  crouch' d  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  earn'd  beneath  a  Moslem  name; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop; 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stern; 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  worst, 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first; 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey, 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 


LONGER  POEMS  251 


XIII 

His  head  grows  fever'd,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse; 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose ; 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press' d, 
The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breast, 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed, 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
But  walk'd  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  the  strand. 
What  pillow' d  them  ?  and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be, 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil  ? 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 
In  sickly  vigil  wander'd  on, 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


XIV 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm, 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm : 
Behind,  the  camp — before  him  lay, 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  gulf;  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 


252       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time ; 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  form'd  to  wear  before  the  ray; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent, 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud, 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled, 
And  linger' d  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh !  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  wither' d  fields,  and  ruin'd  altars, 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token: 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember' d  rays 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 


xv 


Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 

Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes ; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander'd, 

And  o'er  the  past  and  present  ponder'd, 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 

Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 

He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him 

Who  cheer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 

A  traitor  in  a  turban'd  horde; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  number'd, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'd  ; 

Their  phalanx  marshall'd  in  the  plain, 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying; 


LONGER   POEMS  253 

The  very  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing: 
The  waters  murmur'd  of  their  name: 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  grey, 
Claim' d  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay; 
Their  spirits  wrapp'd  the  dusky  mountain ; 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 
Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs ! 
'Tis  still  a  watchword  to  the  earth: 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanction'd,  on  the  tyrant's  head : 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 


XVI 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  woo'd  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,1 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood; 

And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 

Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago: 

A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 

1  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no  perceptible 
tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 


254       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Of  the  leaguer'd  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not, 

Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot? 

Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians'  hold  ? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold  ? 

I  know  not,  in  sooth;  but  from  yonder  wall 

There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball, 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 

That  flank' d  the  seaward  gate  of  the  town; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clank' d,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival, 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh;  . 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull/ 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 

dull, 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they  fed ; 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  rolFd  on  the  sand, 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band : 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair, 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

1  This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath  the  wall 
of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities  worn  by  the 
Bosphorus  in  the  rock,  a  narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  between 
the  wall  and  the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hob- 
house's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some  refractory 
Janizaries. 


LONGER  POEMS  255 


XVII 

Alp  turn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight: 

Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight; 

But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 

Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 

Scorch' d  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 

Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 

There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 

Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower; 

For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 

And  Honour's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 

But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 

O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 

And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 

Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there; 

All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 

All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 


XVIII 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long-forgotten  hands; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone. 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown! 

Out  upon  Time!  it  will  "leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before ! 

Out  upon  Time !  who  for  ever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be: 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  passed  away, 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay ! 


XIX 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base, 
And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face; 
Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 
Declining  was  his  attitude; 


256       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  oppress'd; 

And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent. 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh, 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ?  l 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  a  blade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  ? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithaeron's  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  tunvd  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight? 

There  sate  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 


xx 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 
Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 
"  God  of  my  fathers!  what 'is  here? 
Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 
So  near  a  hostile  armament?  " 
His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 
The  cross  he  deem'd  no  more  divine : 
He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 
But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 
He  gazed,  he  saw:  he  knew  the  face 
Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace; 

1 1  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unintentional,  resemblance 
in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  unpublished  poem  of  Mr. 
Coleridge,  called  "  Christabel."  It  was  not  till  after  these  lines  were 
written  that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singularly  original  and  beautiful 
poem  recited;  and  the  MS.  of  that  production  I  never  saw  till  very 
recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge  himself,  who,  I  hope,  is 
convinced  that  I  have  not  been  a  wilful  plagiarist.  The  original  idea 
undoubtedly  pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  been  composed 
above  fourteen  years. 


LONGER  POEMS  257 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride. 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

But  mellow'd  with  a  tenderer  streak ; 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled  ? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enlivened  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Nought  conceal' d  her  bosom  shining; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  downward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare : 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

XXI 

"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 

That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  bless' d. 

I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall; 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

'Tis  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity; 

And  the  Power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 

From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 

I  come — and  if  I  come  in  vain, 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed : 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 

The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  be  spread  ? 
In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 


258       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 

The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 

None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I've  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn: 

But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot. 

There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  I've  quell'd  the  pride 

Of  Venice;  and  her  hated  race 

Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase 

Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 

Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill' d  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  chillness  to  his  Heart, 

Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold ; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 

The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue, 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew: 

Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 

Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 

Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day; 

And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 

Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd, 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix' d 

With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 

Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream ; 

Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 

So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 

Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight; 

As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 


LONGER  POEMS  259 

From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown; 

Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 

As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

"  If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 

Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven, — 

Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 

From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

Thy  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 

Or  thou  art  lost ;  and  never  shalt  see — 

Not  earth — that's  past — but  heaven  or  me. 

If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 

A  heavy  doom  'tis  thine  to  meet, 

That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 

And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within: 

But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 

The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake; 

And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 

Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 

There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — 

'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon — 

If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 

Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 

Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 

Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged ; 

Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 

Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 

The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky; 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn'd  aside 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy !  He  dismay'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave ! 

No — though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 

And  charged  to  crush  him— let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly 
Without  an  accent  of  reply; 


260       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

He  watch'd  it  passing;  it  is  flown: 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear '  moon  shone, 

And  thus  he  spake — "  Whate'er  my  fate, 

I  am  no  changeling — 'tis  too  late: 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 

Then  rise  again;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee: 

But  thou  art  safe:  oh,  fly  with  me!  " 

He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air? 

He  saw  not — he  knew  not — but  nothing  is  there. 


XXII 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 

And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 

And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "  They  come !  they  come !  " 

The  horsetails  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the  sword 

From  its  sheath;  and  they  form  and  but  wait  for  the  word. 

Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 

Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van; 

Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 

That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 

When  he  breaks  from  the  town;  and  none  escape, 

Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape; 

While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 

Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 

The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 

Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 

White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit: 

The  spears  are  uplifted;  the  matches  are  lit; 

The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 

And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before: 


LONGER   POEMS  261 

Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar; 

Alp  at  their  head ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar; 

The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet — Alia  Hu ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale; 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have!  " 

Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire: 

Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire ! 

XXIII 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buffalo, 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die: 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent; 

Many  a  bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 

Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more: 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 

Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain; 

Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 

xxtv 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 
From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 


262       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  oft  renew'd 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heap'd  by  the  host  of  the  infidel 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot: 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 

With  an  echo -dread  and  new: 

You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day, 

O'er  Salamis  and  Megara; 

(We  have  heard  that  hearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus'  bav. 


XXV 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt, 

Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt; 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 

And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 

From  within  the  plunder 'd  dome: 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street; 

But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 

Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 

Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 


LONGER  POEMS  263 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white, 

But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before: 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him ; 

And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 

Outnumber' d  his  thin  hairs  of  silver  grey. 

From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept: 

Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 

Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp'd 

His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 

Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 

Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire 

Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire  : 

For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago, 

His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe; 

And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait 

His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 

His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 

More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the" shore; 

What  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 

Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell? 

Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves ; 

But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 

XXVI 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout !  a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand : 


254       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Uncloth'd  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on: 

Thus  in  the  fight  is  he  ever  known : 

Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show, 

To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe; 

Many  a  hand's  on  a  richer  hilt, 

But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt; 

Many  a  loftier  turban  may  wear, — 

Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare; 

Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  'tis  there! 

There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 

So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before; 

There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 

Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far; 

It  glances  like  a  falling  star ! 

Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 

The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been ; 

There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 

Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar; 

Or  the  hero,  silent  lying, 

Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying, 

Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 

'Gainst  the  nearest  level!' d  foe, 

Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 

Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 

And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check' d. 

"  Yield  thee,  Minotti;  quarter  take, 

For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"  Never,  renegado,  never! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

"  Francesca ! — Oh,  my  promised  bride ! 

Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride?  " 

"  She  is  safe  " — "  Where?  where?  " — "  in  heaven; 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 


LONGER  POEMS  265 

"  Oh  God!  when  died  she?  "— "  Yesternight— 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight: 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee — 

Come  on !  " — That  challenge  is  in  vain — 

Alp's  already  with  the  slain ! 

While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allow'd  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighbouring  porch 

Of  a  long-defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground ; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk; 

Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 

Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering: 

They  turn'd  him  on  his  back;  his  breast 

And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  and  dust, 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed ; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb, 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob; 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death: 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unaneled  he  pass'd  away, 

Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid, 

To  the  last — a  Renegade. 

XXVIII 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose 
Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes; 
These  in  joy,  in  fury  those: 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 


266       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing, 
Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust, 
Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 
Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 
Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land 
Left  beneath  his  high  command; 
With  him,  aiding  heart -and  hand, 
The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 
Still  the  church  is  tenable, 
Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half  avenged  the  city's  fall, 
When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 
Thither  bending  sternly  back, 
They  leave  before  a  bloody  track ; 
And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 
Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow, 
The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 
Join  to  those  within  the  fane; 
There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 
Shelter'd  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX 

Brief  breathing-time !  the  turban'd  host, 

With  adding  ranks  and  raging  boast, 

Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 

Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat; 

For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 

Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not; 

And  the  foremost,  if  fearful,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly; 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

They  die;  but  ere  their  eyes  could  close, 

Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose; 

Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  fill 

The  ranks  unthinn'd,  though  slaughter'd  still ; 

And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 

Before  the  still  renew' d  attacks : 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weight, 

And  still,  all  deadly  aim'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot; 


LONGER  POEMS  267 

From  every  shatter 'd  window  pour 
The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower : 
But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak— 
The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 
It  bends — it  falls — and  all  is  o'er: 
Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more ! 


XXX 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar  stone; 

Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 

With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love ; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 

Her,  and  the  boy-God  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 

To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled ;  even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles : 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eyes, 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame, 

Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 


XXXI 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 

Con  tain' d  the  dead  of  ages  gone; 

Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 

But  now  illegible  with  gore; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 

Were  smear'd  and  slippery — stain'd,  and  strown 

With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'erthrown: 

There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffin' d  row; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state,    • 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate; 


268       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

But  War  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves, 
And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead : 
Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christian's  chiefest  magazine; 
To  these  a  late-form'd  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource 
Against  the  foe's  o'erwhelming  force. 


XXXII 

The  toe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich, 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  bless'd. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show ! 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes : 

That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  His  blood  so  divine, 

Which  His  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day. 

To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  joined  in  the  fray. 

Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 

A  spoil — the  richest  and  the  last. 

XXXIII 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch'd 
»  To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reach'd, 
WTien  old  Minotti's  hand 


LONGER  POEMS  269 

Touch'd  with  the  torch  the  train — 

Tis  fired! 

Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 

The  turban'd  victors,  the  Christian  band, 

All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 

HurPd  on  high  with  the  shiver'd  fane, 

In  one  wild  roar  expired ! 

The  shatter'd  town — the  walls  thrown  down— 

The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent — 

The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  pass'd — 

The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 

In  cloud  arid  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast — 

Proclaim'd  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 

On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore : 

Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 

All  that  mingled  there  below : 

Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 

Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span, 

When  he  fell  to  earth  again 

Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain: 

Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain; 

Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 

With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles ; 

Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 

Scatter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay; 

Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 

Let  their  mothers  see  and  say ! 

When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 

And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 

On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 

Little  deem'd  she  such  a  day 

Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 

Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 

Could  discern  their  offspring  more ; 

That  one  moment  left  no  trace 

More  of  human  form  or  face 

Save  a  scatter'd  scalp  or  bone: 

And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 

Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 

Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 

All  blacken'd  there  and  reeking  lay. 


270       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

» 

All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared : 
The  wild  birds  flew ;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 
And  howling  left  the  imburied  dead; 
The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke ; 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 
The  nearer  steer  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein; 
The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh 
Deep-mouth'd  arose,  and  doubly  harsh; 
The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavern'd  hill 
Where  echo  rolPd  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gather 'd  cry, 
Bay'd  from  afar  complainingly, 
With  a  mix'd  and  mournful  sound, 
Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound : 
With  sudden  wing,  and  ruffled  breast, 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest, 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seem'd  so  dun: 
Their  smoke  assail'd  his  startled  beak, 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won ! 

LORD  BYRON. 


ADONAIS 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS,  AUTHOR  OF 

"ENDYMION,"  "HYPERION/'  ETC. 

'A<rri;/>  irplv  fjitv  2\afj.Tres  £vl  faoiffiv  'Etfos- 

v\Jv  d£  Oavuv  \d/j,ir€is  "EcrTrepos  Iv  <f>6ifji£voLS.  —  PLATO. 


[Comp.  at  Pisa  during  the  early  days  of  June,  1821,  and  printed, 
with  the  author's  name,  at  Pisa,  "  with  the  types  of  Didot,"  by  isth 
July,  1821.] 

PREFACE 

$dpfJi,aKOv  ^\0e,  Blwv,  TTOTL  crbi>  <7T6fjLa,  <f>dp/j,aKOv  ef§es. 
TTWS  rev  TOIS  xeiXeffffL  irortdpafAe,  KOVK  4y\VKdv8r}  ; 
rts  5£  f3pvrbs  roffffovrov  avdpepos,  ?}  Kepdffai  TOI, 
?)  douvat  \a\toi>Ti  rb  <j>dpjuiCLKOV  ;  ^K<f>v"yev  q>5dv. 

MOSCHUS,  Epitaph.  Bion. 

IT  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London  edition  of  this  poem  a 
criticism  upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented  object  to  be  classed  among 
the  writers  of  the  highest  genius  who  have  adorned  our  age.  My  known 


LONGER   POEMS  271 

repugnance  to  the  narrow  principles  of  taste  on  which  several  of  his 
earlier  compositions  were  modelled  prove  at  least  that  I  am  an  im- 
partial judge.  I  consider  the  fragment  of  Hyperion  as  second  to  nothing 
that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same  years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome  of  a  consumption,  in  his  twenty-fourth 

year,  on  the of 1821 ;    and  was  buried  in  the  romantic  and 

lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the  pyramid 
which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
mouldering  and  desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome. 
The  cemetery  is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter  with 
violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love  with  death,  to  think 
that  one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose  memory  I  have  dedicated 
these  unworthy  verses  was  not  less  delicate  and  fragile  than  it  was 
beautiful;  and  where  cankerworms  abound,  what  wonder  if  its  young 
flower  was  blighted  in  the  bud?  The  savage  criticism  on  his  Endymion, 
which  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  produced  the  most  violent 
effect  on  his  susceptible  mind;  the  agitation  thus  originated  ended  in 
the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the  lungs;  a  rapid  consumption  ensued, 
and  the  succeeding  acknowledgments  from  more  candid  critics  of  the 
true  greatness  of  his  powers  were  ineffectual  to  heal  the  wound  thus 
wantonly  inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said  that  these  wretched  men  know  not  what  they  do. 
They  scatter  their  insults  and  their  slanders  without  heed  as  to  whether 
the  poisoned  shaft  lights  on  a  heart  made  callous  by  many  blows  or 
one  like  Keats's  composed  of  more  penetrable  stuff.  One  of  their 
associates  is,  to  my  knowledge,  a  most  base  and  unprincipled  calumnia- 
tor. As  to  Endymion,  was  it  a  poem,  whatever  might  be  its  defects, 
to  be  treated  contemptuously  by  those  who  had  celebrated,  with  various 
degrees  of  complacency  and  panegyric,  Paris,  and  Woman,  and  a 
Syrian  Tale,  and  Mrs.  Lefanu,  and  Mr.  Barrett,  and  Mr.  Howard 
Payne,  and  a  long  list  of  the  illustrious  obscure?  Are  these  the  men 
who  in  their  venal  good  nature  presumed  to  draw  a  parallel  between 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Milman  and  Lord  Byron  ?  What  gnat  did  they  strain  at 
here,  after  having  swallowed  all  those  camels?  Against  what  woman 
taken  in  adultery  dares  the  foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to 
cast  his  opprobrious  stone?  Miserable  man!  you,  one  of  the  meanest, 
have  wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of  the  workman- 
ship of  God.  Nor  shall  it  be  your  excuse,  that,  murderer  as  you  are, 
you  have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of  poor  Keats's  life  were  not 
made  known  to  me  until  the  Elegy  was  ready  for  the  press.  I  am  given 
to  understand  that  the  wound  which  his  sensitive  spirit  had  received 
from  the  criticism  of  Endymion  was  exasperated  by  the  bitter  sense  of 
unrequited  benefits;  the  poor  fellow  seems  to  have  been  hooted  from 
the  stage  of  life,  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he  had  wasted  the  promise 
of  genius,  than  those  on  whom  he  had  lavished  his  fortune  and 
his  care.  He  was  accompanied  to  Rome,  and  attended  in  his  last 
illness  by  Mr.  Severn,  a  young  artist  of  the  highest  promise,  who,  I 
have  been  informed,  "  almost  risked  his  own  life,  and  sacrificed  every 
prospect  to  unwearied  attendance  upon  his  dying  friend."  Had  I 
known  these  circumstances  before  the  completion  of  my  poem,  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  tribute  of  applause  to  the 
more  solid  recompense  which  the  virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recollection 
of  his  own  motives.  Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a  reward  from  "  such 
stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."  His  conduct  is  a  golden  augury  of  the 
success  of  his  future  career — may  the  unextinguished  Spirit  of  his 
illustrious  friend  animate  the  creations  of  his  pencil,  and  plead  against 
Oblivion  for  his  name ! 


272       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

ADONAIS 
i 

I  WEEP  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow,  say:  il  With  me 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity!  " 


ii 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died?   With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  Death. 


in 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?   Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend ; — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 


IV 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania ! — he  died, 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 


LONGER  POEMS  273 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood ;  he  went  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth;  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  god, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene  abode. 


VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has  perished — 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipped  before  they  blew 
Died,  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


VII 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


274       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 


IX 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung;  and  mourn  their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head. 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries ; 
"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain. 

XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem ; 


LONGER  POEMS  275 

Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 


XII 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its  eclipse. 


XIII 

And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,,  and  glimmering  Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp; — the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 


XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.   Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimmed  by  the  aereal  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  Winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 


276       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

xv 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds : — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 

XVI 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is  flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears ;  odour,  to  sighing  ruth. 

XVII 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 

XVIII 

Ah,  woe  is  me !   Winter  is  c6me  and  gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's  bier; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 


LONGER  POEMS  277 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

XIX 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream  immersed, 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst; 
Diffuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

xx 

The  leprous  corpse,  touched  by  this  spirit  tender, 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath; 
Nought  we  know,  dies.   Shall  that  alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning? — the  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose. 

XXI 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !  Woe  is  me ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?   Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to  sorrow. 

XXII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 

"  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother,  rise 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core 


278       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

A  wound  more  fierce  than  his,  with  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried:   "  Arise!  " 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour  sprung. 


XXIII 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.   Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone,  and  steel, 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell: 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than  they, 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 


XXV 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  Life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight. 
"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not!  "  cried  Urania:  her  distress 
Roused  Death:    Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her  vain 
caress. 


LONGER  POEMS  279 

XXVI 

"  Stay  yet  awhile!  speak  to  me  once  again; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais !   I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart ! 

XXVII 

"  0  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 


XXVIII 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion; — how  they  fled, 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 

XXIX 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men : 

K   746 


280       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

XXX 

Thus  ceased  she:  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  Love  taught  Grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue. 

XXXI 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts ,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey. 

XXXII 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?   On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly:   on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 

XXXIII 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied  and  blue; 


%      LONGER  POEMS  281 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 


xxxiv 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears ;  well  knew  that  gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own, 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sung  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured:   "  Who  art  thou?  " 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's — oh !  that  it  should  be  so ! 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one, 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs, 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXVI 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe ! 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape,  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 


282       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

XXXVII 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow: 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as  now. 


XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  those  carrion  kites  that  scream  below; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of  shame. 

XXXIX 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings. — We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living" clay. 


XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 


LONGER   POEMS  283 

He  is  secure,,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

XLI 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair! 

XLII 

He  i3  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there, 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

XLIV 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 


284      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb. 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.  When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 


XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.  Chatterton 
Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him  ;   Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved: 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

XL  VI 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry, 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng!  " 

XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?   Oh,  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 


LONGER  POEMS  285 

XLVIII 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  'tis  nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread ; 


And  grey  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 


LI 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 


286       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.   From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

LII 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near: 
'Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

LIV 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 

Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 


LONGER  POEMS  287 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 

P.  B.  SHELLEY. 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

[Pisa,  March?  1820.    Publ.  1820.] 
PART   FIRST 

A  SENSITIVE  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  Night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour,  sent 

From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green ; 


288       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addressed 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare: 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Msenad,  its  moonlight-coloured  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  pranked,  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 

As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 

And  flow'rets  which,  drooping  as  day  drooped  too, 

Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 

To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 


LONGER  POEMS  289 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed, 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver  : 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower; 
Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  dower; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  Beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings ; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 

The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 
Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound,  and  odour  and  beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 


2QO       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  when  evening  descended  from  Heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were  drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant) ; — 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Upgathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  Night. 


PART   SECOND 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden ;  a  ruling  Grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even: 

And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  Heaven, 

Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  the  Night  walks  forth, 

Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earth ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes, 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise: 


LONGER  POEMS  291 

As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  Heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 

Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  pressed; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  aery  footstep  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep; 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam  ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder-showers. 

She  lifted  their  head  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier-bands ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore,  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, — 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 


292       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  Spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  Summertide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown — she  died ! 


PART   THIRD 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baiae,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners,  deep  and  low; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin-plank; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul, 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  Summer  into  the  Autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 


LONGER  POEMS  293 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  day  after  day, 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  passed ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds, 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks ; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin;  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank, 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth, 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 


294       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Their  moss  rotted  off  them,  flake  by  flake, 
Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murderer's  stake, 
Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on  high, 
Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by.1 

And  agarics,  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated ! 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum, 

Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb, 

And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 

Dammed  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  water-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still, 
The  vapours  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill ; 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were  felt, 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid, 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew, 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came:  the  wind  was  his  whip: 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  Arctic  zone. 

1  This  stanza  was  suppressed  in  later  editions. 


LONGER  POEMS  295 

Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want : 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again; 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out, 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy,  and  stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  Winter  had  gone  and  Spring  came  back 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and  darnels, 

Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 


CONCLUSION 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  Spirit  sat, 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  Lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 


296       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odours  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away: 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed;  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 
There  is  no  death  nor  change :  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 

P.  B.  SHELLEY. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

ST.  AGNES'  EVE — ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by,  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor. 


LONGER  POEMS  297 

But  no— already  had  his  death-bell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.   Soon,  up  aloft. 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise  on  their 
breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain  new-stuff  d,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.  These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey 'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline: 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 


298       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 

And  back  retired;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 

But  she  saw  not:  her  heart  was  otherwhere; 

She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand,  she  sighs: 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng' d  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger 'd  still.   Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.   Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such  things 
have  been. 

He  ventures  in:  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell, 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execration  howl 
Against  his  lineage;  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall  pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her:  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 


LONGER   POEMS  299 

Saying,  "  Mercy  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race ! 

"  Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand: 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas  me !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  " — "  Good  saints !  not  here,  not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a— well-a-day !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  0  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

"  St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days. 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro !— St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 
God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile, — I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


300       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art! 
Sweet  lady !  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.   Go,  go !  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear!  " 
Quoth  Porphyro:  "  0  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face. 
Good  Angela,  believe  me,  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves 
and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd."   Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion' d  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame: 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 


LONGER  POEMS  301 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night:  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.   Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  re  turn' d,  and  whisper 'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.   Safe  at  last 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission' d  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.   Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  utter 'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch' d  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries, 
Of  fruits  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass^ 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 


302        THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask' d  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven: — Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives:  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,   where,   lo ! — how   fast   she 
slept ! 


LONGER   POEMS  303 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish' d,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :— 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar 'd  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.   Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

Awakening,  up  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 


304       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  " ; 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan: 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  aff rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone: 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone, 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh, 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro!  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion' d  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush' d,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

'Tis  dark:  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet. 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!  " 
Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas !  alas!  and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 


LONGER  POEMS  305 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

"  My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer !  lovely  bride! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil-dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"  Hark!  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise — arise !  the  morning  is  at  hand ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed ; — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown' d  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead. 
Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears. 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found ; 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horsemen,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


306       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.  Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy- twitch' d,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS 

"  COURAGE!  "  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land. 
"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land :  far  off,  three  mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush'd:  and,  dew'd  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger 'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale ; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 


LONGER   POEMS  307 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seenrd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father-land, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no  more  " ; 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 


CHORIC  SONG 


THERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes; 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

ii 

Why  are  we  weigh' d  upon  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 
All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone, 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 


308       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown: 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm ; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm !  " 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things  ? 


in 

Lo !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steep' d  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


IV 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labour  be? 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward  fast, 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 

Let  us  alone.   What  pleasure  can  we  have 

To  war  with  evil  ?  Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 

In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease: 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease. 


LONGER  POEMS  309 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height; 

To  hear  each  others  whisper'd  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass ! 

VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 

And  their  warm  tears:  but  all  hath  suffer'd  change; 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold : 

Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are  strange : 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten-years'  war  in  Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile: 

'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 

Long  labour  unto  aged  breath. 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 

VII 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 


310       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick- twined  vine — 

To  watch  the  emerald-colour' d  water  falling 

Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  divine ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the  pine. 


VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak: 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos-dust  is 

blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when  the  surge  was 

seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam-fountains  in 

the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are  lightly 

curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming  world : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and   famine,  plague   and   earthquake,  roaring  deep 

and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships,  and 

praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil : 


LONGER  POEMS  311 

Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whisper'd — down 

in  hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labour  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and  oar; 
Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 

LORD  TENNYSON. 
(1853) 


ABT  VOGLER 

(AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORISING  UPON  THF, 
INSTRUMENT  OF  HIS  INVENTION) 


WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon 

willed 

Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 

Adverse,    each   from    the    other   heaven-high,    hell-deep 

removed, — 

Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he 
loved! 


Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned 

to  raise ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and 

now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his 

praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to 

hell, 

Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace 

well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

L   746 


312        THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

in 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent 

minion  he  was. 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a 

crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest: 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul 
was  in  sight. 

IV 

In  sight?   Not  half!   for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match 

man's  birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach 

the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the 

sky: 
Novel  splendours  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with 

mine, 

Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering  star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze :  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near 
nor  far. 


Nay,  more;   for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare 

and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 

Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at 

last; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the 

body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth 

their  new; 

What  never  had  been,  was  now;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon; 
And  what  is — shall  I  say,  matched  both?  for  I  was  made 
perfect  too. 


LONGER  POEMS  313 

VI 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my 

soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly 

forth, 
All  through  music  and  me!    For  think,  had  I  painted  the 

whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder- 
worth; 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect  proceeds 

from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is 

told; 

It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled : — 


VII 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and,  lo,  they  are ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound, 

but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  nought; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use !  I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought : 

And,  there!   Ye  have  heard  and  seen:    consider  and  bow 
the  head ! 


VIII 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared ; 

Gone !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too 

slow; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again !  But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance:  is  this  your  comfort  to  me ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God:   ay,  what 
was.  shall  be. 


314       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

IX 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands ! 

What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same  ? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power 

expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !  What  was,  shall  live  as 

before; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good 

more; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;    in  the  heaven,  a  perfect 
round. 


All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;   no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor 

power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and-by . 


XI 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 
For  the  fulness   of  the  days?      Have  we  withered  or 

agonised? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might 

issue  thence? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be 

prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome:  'tis  we  musicians  know. 


LONGER  POEMS  315 

XII 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me;  silence  resumes  her  reign: 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.   I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 
found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT 

[SUPPOSED  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene: 
It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the  fifth, 
Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is  all  Greek 
And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu  : 
Lies  second  in  the  surnamed  Chosen  Chest, 
Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of  terebinth, 
Covered  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  lettered  Xi, 
From  Xanthus,  my  wife's  uncle,  now  at  peace: 
Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own  name. 
I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross 
To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the  rest, 
And  leave  off  here:  beginneth  Pamphylax.] 

I  said,  "  If  one  should  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

And  slip  the  broadest  plantain-leaf  we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe, 

Into  the  water- vessel,  lay  it  right, 

And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the  eyes, 

The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either  side, 

Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to  make  it  warm,- 

He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might  speak." 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave, 
Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock 
Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree  was  out, 
We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin, 


316       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while; 
But  in  the  midmost  grotto:  since  noon's  light 
Reached  there  a  little,  and  we  would  not  lose 
The  last  of  what  might  happen  on  his  face. 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the  feet, 

With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted  him, 

And  brought  him  from  the  chamber  in  the  depths, 

And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we  might  see : 

For  certain  smiles  began  about  his  mouth, 

And  his  lids  moved,  presageful  of  the  end. 

Beyond,  and  half  way  up  the  mouth  o'  the  cave, 
The  Bactrian  convert,  having  his  desire, 
Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to  graze  a  goat 
That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various  herb, 
Plantain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade  keeps  alive: 
So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed, 
(Because  the  persecution  was  aware) 
Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with  his  life, 
Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a  prize, 
Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the  cave. 
Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning  blue. 

"  Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus, — dropped  a  drop; 

I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth  aright, 

Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the  Boy  his  left: 

But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and  produced 

And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made  perfume. 

Only,  he  did — not  so  much  wake,  as — turn 

And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 

If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his  face — 

And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still  he  slept : 
It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped  to  Rome, 
Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle. 

Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his  knees,  and  ran, 
Stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought, 
And  fetched  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead 
Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a  place, 
Pressing  with  finger  on  the  deeper  dints, 


LONGER  POEMS  317 

And  spoke,  as  'twere  his  mouth  proclaiming  first, 
"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  once, 
And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at  us; 
And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced  a  word ; 
Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his  cry 
Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears  the  ruff, 
As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to  time. 

First  he  said,  "  If  a  friend  declared  to  me,, 

This  my  son  Valens,  this  my  other  son, 

Were  James  and  Peter, — nay,  declared  as  well 

This  lad  was  very  John, — I  could  believe  1 

— Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly  believe: 

So  is  myself  withdrawn  into  my  depths, 

The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished  brain 

Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use  the  world 

Through  these  dull  members,  done  with  long  ago. 

Yet  I  myself  remain;  I  feel  myself: 

And  there  is  nothing  lost.  Let  be,  awhile! ?' 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to  teach, 

How  divers  persons  witness  in  each  man, 

Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul:  first,  to  wit, 

A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts, 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward :  but,  tending  upward  for  advice, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain, 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use, 

And  f eeleth,  thinketh,  willeth, — is  what  Knows : 

W^hich,  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first, 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play, 

As  that  played  off  the  first :  and,  tending  up, 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse, 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him. 


3i8       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is;  three  souls,  one  man. 
I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 

And  then,  "  A  stick,  once  fire  from  end  to  end; 

Now,  ashes  save  that  tip  that  holds  a  spark ! 

Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back,  spreads  itself 

A  little  where  the  fire  was :  thus  I  urge 

The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task  once  more 

What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept  their  shape, 

And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o'  the  flesh. 

Trying  to  taste  again  the  truth  of  things — " 

(He  smiled) — "  their  very  superficial  truth; 

As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 

Since  James  and  Peter  had  release  by  death, 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

Who  saw  and  heard,  and  could  remember  all. 

Remember  all !  It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from  above 

As  once  and  oft-times  ?  Such  might  hap  again : 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  presence  here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes  flame,  and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I  have  seen — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'  How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight  and  live  ?  ' 

"  If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 
Through  me  to  men :  be  nought  but  ashes  here 
That  keep  awhile  my  semblance,  who  was  John, — 
Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left  on  earth 
No  one  alive  who  knew  (consider  this !) 
— Saw  with  his  eyes  and  handled  with  his  hands 
That  which  was  from  the  first,  the  Word  of  Life. 
How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith  '  I  saw  '  ? 

"  Such  ever  was  love's  way:  to  rise,  it  stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught,  was  bidden" teach, 

I  went,  for  many  years,  about  the  world, 

Saying  '  It  was  so;  so  I  heard  and  saw/ 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked:  and  men  believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  myself 

In  Patmos  isle;  I  was  not  bidden  teach, 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and  write, 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given  word, 


LONGER  POEMS  319 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change:  I  wrote,  and  men  believed. 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  message  more. 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 

And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge,  merely  taught 

Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in  love's  strength  believe; 

Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend 

And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less  nor  more: 

Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and  believed. 

But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left  alive 

Like  a  sea-jelly  weak  on  Patmos  strand, 

To  tell  dry  sea-beach  gazers  how  I  fared 

When  there  was  mid-sea,  and  the  mighty  things : 

Left  to  repeat,  '  I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 

With  Antichrist  already  in  the  world, 

And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered  prompt 

4  Am  I  not  Jasper  as  thyself  art  John  ? 

Nay,  young,  whereas  through  age  thou  mayest  forget; 

Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we  believe  ?  ' 

I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on  such, 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days, 

Pick  up  the  scorpion,  tread  the  serpent  dumb; 

But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work : 

Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed  and  word, ' 

Lay  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 

Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown  to  match, 

Fed  through  such  years,  familiar  with  such  light, 

Guarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and  speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result ; 

What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I  now  knew  stars, 

And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  have  writ. 

For  men  said,  '  It  is  getting  long  ago  : 

Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?  ' — asked 

These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as  loth  to  wait, 

Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were  born,  was  old. 

I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joyfully, 

Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my  age ; 

And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men  believed. 

Finally,  thus  endeavouring,  I  fell  sick, 

Ye  brought  me  here,  and  I  supposed  the  end, 

And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought  that,  at  least, 


320       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Though  the  whole  earth  should  lie  in  wickedness, 
We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 
As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen  afar, 
Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former  self, 
Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts  which  snap, 
Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own  world, 
Feeling  for  foot-hold  through  a  blank  profound, 
Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange  lands, 
Who  say — I  hear  said  or  conceive  they  say — 
'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw  ? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see ! ' 

"  And  how  shall  I  assure  them?  Can  they  share 

— They,  who  have  flesh,  a  veil  of  youth  and  strength 

About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must  bide  its  time, 

Living  and  learning  still  as  years  assist 

Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and  let  man  see — 

With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at  all, 

But  shudderingly,  scarce  a  shred  between, 

Lie  bare  to  the  universal  prick  of  light  ? 

Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and  weak, 

We  whom  God  loves?  When  pain  ends,  gain  ends  too. 

To  me,  that  story — ay,  that  Life  and  Death 

Of  which  I  wrote  '  it  was  ' — to  me,  it  is; 

— Is,  here  and  now :  I  apprehend  nought  else. 

Is  not  God  now  i5  the  world  His  power  first  made  ? 

Is  not  His  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 

Visibly  when  a  wrong  is  done  on  earth  ? 

Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else  around  ? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise 

To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne — what  is  it  beside, 

When  such  truth,  breaking  bounds,  o'erfloods  my  soul, 

And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even  so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 

The  good  and  glory  consummated  thence? 

I  saw  the  power;  I  see  the  Love,  once  weak, 

Resume  the  Power:  and  in  this  word  '  I  see/ 

Lo,  there  is  recognised  the  Spirit  of  both 

That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man,  unblinds 

His  eye  and  bids  him  look.  These  are,  I  see; 

But  ye,  the  children,  His  beloved  ones  too, 

Ye  need, — as  I  should  use  an  optic  glass 


LONGER   POEMS  321 

I  wondered  at  erewhile,  somewhere  i'  the  world. 

It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to  make; 

A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought  too  close, 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 

For  the  unassisted  eye  to  master  once : 

Look  through  his  tube,  at  distance  now  they  lay, 

Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small,  so  clear ! 

Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend  what  truth 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact, 

Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a  point 

And  far  away:  ye  would  withdraw  your  sense 

From  out  eternity,  strain  it  upon  time, 

Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life  and  Death 

Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dispread, 

As  though  a  star  should  open  out,  all  sides, 

Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my  world. 

"  For  life,  with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and  woe, 

And  hope  and  fear, — believe  the  aged  friend, — 

Is  just  our  chance  o'  the  prize  of  learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been  indeed,  and  is; 

And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the  uttermost 

Such  prize  despite  the  envy  of  the  world, 

And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth:  that  is  all. 

But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we  are  led, 

How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from  the  flesh! 

With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to  stay, 

And  yields  mere  basement  for  the  soul's  emprise, 

Expect  prompt  teaching.   Helpful  was  the  light, 

And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food  was  choice 

To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years  ago, 

As  now  to  yours  and  mine;  the  body  sprang 

At  once  to  the  height,  and  stayed:  but  the  soul. — no! 

Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  meditate 

In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some  point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve; 

And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole  mass  extends, 

So  much  extends  the  aether  floating  o'er, 

The  love  that  tops  the  might,  the  Christ  in  God. 

Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned  in  these 

Till  earth's  work  stop  and  useless  time  run  out, 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 

For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  possible, 


322       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  decay, 

Saving  us  from  evasion  of  life's  proof, 

Putting  the  question  ever,  '  Does  God  love, 

And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against  the  world  ?  ' 

Ye  know  there  needs  no  second  proof  with  good 

Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly  source: 

We  might  go  freezing,  ages, — give  us  fire, 

Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full  worth, 

And  guard  it  safe  through  every  chance,  ye  know ! 

That  fable  of  Prometheus  and  his  theft, 

How  mortals  gained  Jove's  fiery  flower,  grows  old 

(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans  own) 

And  out  of  mind;  but  fire,  howe'er  its  birth, 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 

Who  laughs  the  myth  of  ^Eschylus  to  scorn, 

As  precious  to  those  satyrs  of  his  play, 

Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  at  the  thing. 

While  were  it  so  with  the  soul, — this  gift  of  truth 

Once  grasped,  were  this  our  soul's  gain  safe,  and  sure 

To  prosper  as  the  body's  gain  is  wont, — 

Why,  man's  probation  would  conclude,  his  earth 

Crumble;  for  he  both  reasons  and  decides, 

Weighs  first,  then  chooses :  will  he  give  up  fire 

For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its  worth  ? 

Could  he  give  Christ  up  were  His  worth  as  plain  ? 

Therefore,  I  say,  to  test  man,  the  proofs  shift, 

Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other  fact, 

And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowledge  it, 

As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire. 

Sigh  ye,  '  It  had  been  easier  once  than  now  '  ? 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive; 

Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the  first ! 

Ye  know  what  things  I  saw;  then  came  a  test, 

My  first,  befitting  me  who  so  had  seen: 

'  Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  transfigured,  Him 

Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the  dead  to  life  ? 

What  should  wring  this  from  thee! ' — ye  laugh  and  ask. 

Wrhat  wrung  it  ?  Even  a  torchlight  and  a  noise, 

The  sudden  Roman  faces,  violent  hands, 

And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do !  Just  that, 

And  it  is  written,  '  I  forsook  and  fled  ' : 

There  was  my  trial,  and  it  ended  thus. 

Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth,  could  grow: 


LONGER   POEMS  323 

Another  year  or  two, — what  little  child, 

What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no  least 

Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heard  them  told, 

Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a  light  laugh, 

Or  wrap  the  burning  robe  round,  thanking  God  ? 

Well,  was  truth  safe  for  ever,  then?  Not  so. 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 

Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  absolute  blaze, 

Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the  o'erstretched  doubt. 

Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  '  All  is  true 

As  the  aged  ones  report;  but  youth  can  reach 

Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with  stir  and  strain. 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to-day.' 

Thus,  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found, 

A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled  truth, 

Now  proved  the  glozing  of  some  new  shrewd  tongue, 

This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus  or  their  mates, 

Till  imminent  was  the  outcry  '  Save  our  Christ ! ' 

Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work. 

Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what  comes  next  ? 

What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men  say, 

*  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw  ? 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see ! J 

"  Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late  days, 

And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you  all, 

Using  my  weakness  which  becomes  your  strength  ? 

For  if  a  babe  were  born  inside  this  grot, 

Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise  the  sun, 

Yet  had  but  yon  sole  glimmer  in  light's  place, — 

One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should  learn, 

Would  much  rejoice  himself  was  blinded  first 

Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to  understand 

How  eyes,  born  darkling,  apprehend  amiss : 

I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a  child 

There  was  more  glow  outside  than  gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  '  I  saw  it,  so  believe ! ' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear 

In  latter  days,  new  lands,  or  old  grown  strange, 

Left  without  me,  which  must  be  very  soon. 

What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers  ?  Quick  with  it ! 

I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new  face, 


324       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer  eves, 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea; 

Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 

Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous  town 

Where  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  solitude; 

Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone  and  sand 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus: 

And  no  one  asks  his  fellow  any  more 

'  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?  '  but 

'  Was  he  revealed  in  any  of  His  lives, 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  Influencing  Soul  ?  ' 

"  Quick,  for  time  presses,  tell  the  whole  mind  out, 
And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be  saved ! 
My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  cannot  pass ; 
One  listens  quietly,  nor  scoffs  but  pleads 
'  Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages  since; 
What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second  day? 
Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine,  go  for  nought. 
Remains  the  doctrine,  love;  well,  we  must  love, 
And  what  we  love  most,  power  and  love  in  one, 
Let  us  acknowledge  on  the  record  here, 
Accepting  these  in  Christ:  must  Christ  then  be? 
Has  He  been?  Did  not  we  ourselves  make  Him? 
Our  mind  receives  but  what  it  holds,  no  more. 
First  of  the  love,  then;  we  acknowledge  Christ — 
A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a  proof 
We  had  such  love  already  in  ourselves, 
Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not  recognise. 
'Tis  mere  projection  from  man's  inmost  mind, 
And,  what  he  loves,  thus  falls  reflected  back, 
Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  of  him ; 
He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down  earth's, 
With  shape,  name,  story  added,  man's  old  way. 
How  prove  you  Christ  came  otherwise  at  least  ? 
Next  try  the  power:  He  made  and  rules  the  world: 
Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made,  now  ruled, 
Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we  see. 
Our  sires  declared  a  charioteer's  yoked  steeds 
Brought  the  sun  up  the  east  and  down  the  west, 
Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets, 
As  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will, — 
Thus  they  long  thought,  they  who  had  will  and  hands: 


LONGER  POEMS  325 

But  the  new  question's  whisper  is  distinct, 

Wherefore  must  all  force  needs  be  like  ourselves  ? 

We  have  the  hands,  the  will;  what  made  and  drives 

The  sun  is  force,  is  law,  is  named,  not  known, 

While  will  and  love  we  do  know;  marks  of  these, 

Eye-witnesses  attest,  so  books  declare — 

As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 

The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 

Or  else  stood  still:  what  do  not  men  affirm? 

But  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 

Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 

And  none  expects  the  sun  will  interpose: 

Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and  mistake, 

Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed  the  truth. 

Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of  things ; 

Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the  love, 

Man's ! — which  he  gives,  supposing  he  but  finds, 

As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands  and  feet, 

To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called  his  gods. 

First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were  swept  away 

But  Jove's  wrath,  Juno's  pride  continued  long; 

As  last,  will,  power,  and  love  discarded  these, 

So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love,  and  will. 

What  proveth  God  is  otherwise  at  least? 

All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of  man! ' 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am  strong, 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my  hands. 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop; 

That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more. 

Having  grown  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn : 

Eor  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these. 

This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 

New  height  in  view;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 

The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall, 

Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 

Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each  stage 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done ; 

And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved. 

You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered  twigs 

To  show  inside  lie  germs  of  herbs  unborn, 

And  check  the  careless  step  would  spoil  their  birth, 


326       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian  twigs  may  go, 

Since  should  ye  doubt  of  virtues,  question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look, 

Which  proved  once  underneath  lay  store  of  seed, 

But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light  ye  boast, 

For  what  fruit's  signs  are.   This  book's  fruit  is  plain, 

Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 

Doth  the  fruit  show?  Then  miracles  bade  'ware 

At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both  till  now 

From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar  and  wanton  goat. 

What  ?  Was  man  made  a  wheelwork  to  wind  up, 

And  be  discharged,  and  straight  wound  up  anew? 

No! — grown,  his  growth  lasts;  taught,  he  ne'er  forgets: 

May  learn  a  thousand  things,  not  twice  the  same. 

"  This  might  be  pagan  teaching:  now  hear  mine. 

"  I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  awhile, 

Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  himself, 

So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed  with  truth : 

When  they  can  eat,  babe's-nurture  is  withdrawn. 

I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or  no : 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve. 

I  cried  once,  '  That  ye  may  believe  in  Christ, 

Behold  this  blind  man  shall  receive  his  sight ! ' 

I  cry  now,  '  Urgest  thou,/0r  /  am  shrewd 

And  smile  at  stones  how  John's  word  could  cure — 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  my  faith  ?  ' 

I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  wrought 

When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  was  possible. 

Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i'  the  shows  o'  the  world 

Whether  the  change  came  from  our  minds  which  see 

Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as  and  no  more 

Than  God  wills  for  His  purpose, — (what  do  I 

See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where  you  see  rock 

Round  us?)— -I  know  not;  such  was  the  effect, 

So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles 

Because  too  much:  they  would  compel,  not  help. 

I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in  Christ 

Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for  thee 

All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of  it, 

And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be  wise. 

Wouldst  thou  unprove  this  to  re-prove  the  proved  ? 


LONGER  POEMS  327 

In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to  use  that  proof, 
Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how  it  sprung  ? 
Thou  hast  it:  use  it  and  forthwith,  or  die! 

"  For  I  say,  this  is  death  and  the  sole  death, 

When  a  man's  loss  comes  to  him  from  his  gain, 

Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge  ignorance, 

And  lack  of  love  from  love  made  manifest ; 

A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil,  it  chokes: 

A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure. 

When  man,  appalled  at  nature,  questioned  first 

'  What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind  this  might  ?  ' 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word : 

But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble  might, 

Yet  asks,  '  Since  all  is  might,  what  use  of  will  ?  J 

— Will,  the  one  source  of  might, — he  being  man 

With  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might,  to  teach 

In  little  how  the  two  combine  in  large, — 

That  man  has  turned  round  on  himself  and  stands. 

Which  in  the  course  of  nature  is,  to  die. 

"  And  when  man  questioned,  '  What  if  there  be  love 
Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as  they?  ' — 
He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word : 
But  when,  beholding  that  love  everywhere, 
He  reasons,  '  Since  such  love  is  everywhere, 
And  since  ourselves  can  love  and  would  be  loved, 
We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not,' — 
How  shall  ye  help  this  man  who  knows  himself, 
That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved  again, 
Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth  Christ, 
Rejecteth  Christ  through  very  need  of  Him? 
The  lamp  o'erswims  with  oil,  the  stomach  flags 
Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  man's  soul  dies. 

"  If  he  rejoin,  '  But  this  was  all  the  while 
A  trick;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in  thee, 
Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and  dates, 
Where,  when  and  how  the  ultimate  truth  had  rise 
— Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered  none, 
Whence  now  the  second  suffers  detriment. 


328       THE  GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if,  because 

O'  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit  fail  ? 

And  why  refuse  what  modicum  of  help 

Had  stopped  the  after-doubt,  impossible 

I'  the  face  of  truth — truth  absolute,  uniform  ? 

Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of  that, 

Distinguish  just  as  I  be  weak  or  strong, 

And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer  prompt, 

Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once  ? — then  and  now 

And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man  to  man. 

Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen  bard's? 

Put  question  of  his  famous  play  again 

How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake  Jove's  fire  was  filched, 

And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to  earth; 

The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, 

Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is  fact, 

Though  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on  earth. 

As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy  tale : 

Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake, 

Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper  words  ?  ' 

"  I  answer,  Have  ye  yet  to  argue  out 

The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 

— Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  become? 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new, 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact, 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best. 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise  ? 

Before  the  point  was  mooted  '  What  is  God  ?  ' 

No  savage  man  inquired  '  What  am  myself?  ' 

Much  less  replied,  '  First,  last,  and  best  of  things.' 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 

Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor  love, 

In  God's  case — what  he  names  now  Nature's  Law — 

While  in  himself  he  recognises  love 

No  less  than  might  and  will:  and  rightly  takes. 

Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent  thing 

Where  these  combine,  whatever  their  degree, 

However  weak  the  might  or  will  or  love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evidence, — 

He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 


LONGER  POEMS  329 

Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor  will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge, 

(When  the  faint  dust-speck  flits,  ye  guess  its  wing) 

Is  marvellous  beyond  dead  Atlas'  self — 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting-place ! 

Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest — God,  in  fine, 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  defeat, 

The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst  fall, 

His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is  death. 

"  But  if,  appealing  thence,  he  cower,  avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 

Neither  may  know  God  nor  mistake  himself; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 

And  say,  by  such  confession  straight  he  falls 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast, 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more : 

Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all, 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end, 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone, 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  not  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at  first 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest. 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first; 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man, 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind, 


330       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake, 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same ; 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 

Cries  ever  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see  ' : 

Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself. 

How  were  it  had  he  cried  '  I  see  no  face, 

No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual  clay  '  ? 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  his  hands, 

And  laughed  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again ! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's ! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  creatureship  ? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more, 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness ; 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby, 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires : 

By  these,  make  newest  vessels,  reach  the  type ! 

If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head, 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels'  law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing! 

"  Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest  time. 
I  have  survived  to  hear  it  with  my  ears, 
Answer  it  with  my  lips :  does  this  suffice  ? 
For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than  such, 
Wherein  my  brothers  struggling  need  a  hand, 
So  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 
May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet, 
Plucking  the  blind  ones  back  from  the  abyss, 
Though  I  should  tarry  a  new  hundred  years !  " 

But  he  was  dead;  'twas  about  noon,  the  day 
Somewhat  declining:  we  five  buried  him 


LONGER  POEMS  331 

That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went  five  ways, 
And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephesus. 

By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be  filled  with  sand. 

Valens  is  lost,  I  know  not  of  his  trace ; 

The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish  man, 

And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved : 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 

Seeing  that  I  to-morrow  fight  the  beasts, 

I  tell  the  same  to  Phcebas,  whom  believe ! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face, 

Beloved  John's  to  whom  I  ministered, 

Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world ;  they  err : 

Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly  spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates, 

Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this  speech 

Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I  suppose. 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 

About  the  world  with  his  divine  regard ! 

For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the  man 

Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast  with  God. 


[Cerinthus  read  and  mused;  one  added  this: 

"  If  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men 

Mere  man,  the  first  and  best  but  nothing  more, — 

Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  was, 

Now  and  for  ever,  wretchedest  of  all. 

For  see;  Himself  conceived  of  life  as  love, 

Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter  in, 

Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul  He  loved : 

Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's  joy  for  Him. 

Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit  reward. 

But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set  free, 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive: 

Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed  awhile, 

Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years,  some  compute) 

See  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands, 

There  be  not  found,  that  day  the  world  shall  end, 

Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by  Christ's  word 

That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with  all, 

With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  John, 


332       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Groom  for  each  bride !  Can  a  mere  man  do  this  ? 
Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and  died  to  do. 
Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God, 
Or  lost!" 

But  'twas  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes ! 

No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 

Nor  the  cropp'd  grasses  shoot  another  head. 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 

And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 

Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd  green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  renew  the  quest ! 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 

Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to  use — 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 

The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 

With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd !  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 

Pale  pink  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  showers 

Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 

And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 


LONGER  POEMS  333 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again ! 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 

One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy-lore, 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 

And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country-lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  enquired ; 
Whereat  he  answer' d,  that  the  gipsy-crew, 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 

The  workings  of  men's  brains, 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will. 

"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  the  secret  of  their  art, 

When  fully  learn' d,  will  to  the  world  impart ; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  re  turn' d  no  more. — 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country-side, 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 

In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  grey, 

The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring; 

At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 

On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering. 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 

And  put  the  shepherds,  wandererj  on  thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place ; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  m  the  summer-heats, 

'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 


334       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground ! 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer-nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 

Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 

As  the  slow  punt  swings  round ; 
And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream, 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Pluck'd  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream, 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more ! — 
Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  f rail-leaf 'd,  white  anemone, 

Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer  eves, 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay- time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 
•    Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where  black- wing' d  swallows  haunt  the  glittering  Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon' d  lasher  pass, 

Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown; 

Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air — 

But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wert  gone ! 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 

Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April-day, 

The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine; 

And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and  shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 


LONGER  POEMS  335 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  grey, 

Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thessaly — 

The  blackbird,  picking  food, 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all; 

So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray. 

Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither 'd  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go, 

Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge, 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 

Thy  face  tow'rd  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge  ? 

And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill, 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range; 

Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes  fall, 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church  hall- 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd  grange. 

But  what — I  dream !  Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 

And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander' d  from  the  studious  walls 

To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy-tribe; 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid — 

Some  country-nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 

Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave, 
Under  a  dark,  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

— No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours ! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls; 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are — what  we  have  been. 


336       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou  perish,  so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire; 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  numbered  with  the  dead ! 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire ! 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,  alas !  have  not. 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled,  brings. 

0  life  unlike  to  ours ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he  strives, 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven !  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfill'd; 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day — 
Ah !  do  not  we,  wanderer !  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it ! — but  it  still  delays, 

Aiid  then  we  suffer !  and  amongst  us  one, 

Who  most  has  suffer 'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne; 

And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 

And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 

And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 


LONGER  POEMS  337 

This  for  our  wisest !  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear; 
With  close-lipp'd  patience  for  our  only  friend, 

Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  despair — 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine ! 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods  dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy, 

Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

0  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames ; 

Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife — 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood ! 

Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 

From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude ! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver' d  branches  of  the  glade — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 

Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales ! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 

Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix' d  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made ; 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 


338       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles ! 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader ,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 

Among  the  ^Egaean  isles; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine. 
Green,  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep'd  in  brine — 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves — 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail; 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits ;  and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of  foam, 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


GOBLIN  MARKET 

MORNING  and  evening 
Maids  heard  the  goblins  cry: 
"  Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits, 
Come  buy,  come  buy: 
Apples  and  quinces, 
Lemons  and  oranges, 
Plump  unpecked  cherries, 
Melons  and  raspberries, 
Bloom-down-cheeked  peaches, 
Swart-headed  mulberries, 
Wild  free-born  cranberries, 
Crab-apples,  dewberries, 
Pine-apples,  blackberries, 
Apricots,  strawberries; — 
All  ripe  together 


LONGER  POEMS  339 

In  summer  weather, — 

Morns  that  pass  by, 

Fair  eves  that  fly; 

Come  buy,  come  buy: 

Our  grapes  fresh  from  the  vine, 

Pomegranates  full  and  fine, 

Dates  and  sharp  bullaces, 

Rare  pears  and  greengages, 

Damsons  and  bilberries, 

Taste  them  and  try: 

Currants  and  gooseberries, 

Bright-fire-like  barberries, 

Figs  to  fill  your  mouth, 

Citrons  from  the  South, 

Sweet  to  tongue  and  sound  to  eye; 

Come  buy,  come  buy." 

Evening  by  evening 
Among  the  brookside  rushes, 
Laura  bowed  her  head  to  hear, 
Lizzie  veiled  her  blushes: 
Crouching  close  together 
In  the  cooling  weather, 
With  clasping  arms  and  cautioning  lips, 
With  tingling  cheeks  and  finger  tips. 
"  Lie  close,"  Laura  said, 
Pricking  up  her  golden  head : 
"  We  must  not  look  at  goblin  men, 
We  must  not  buy  their  fruits : 
"  Who  knows  upon  what  soil  they  fed 
Their  hungry  thirsty  roots?  " 
"  Come  buy/'  call  the  goblins 
Hobbling  down  the  glen. 
"  Oh,"  cried  Lizzie,  "  Laura,  Laura, 
You  should  not  peep  at  goblin  men." 
Lizzie  covered  up  her  eyes, 
Covered  close  lest  they  should  look; 
Laura  reared  her  glossy  head, 
And  whispered  like  the  restless  brook: 
"  Look  Lizzie,  look  Lizzie, 
Down  the  glen  tramp  little  men. 
One  hauls  a  basket, 
One  bears  a  plate, 


340       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

One  lugs  a  golden  dish 

Of  many  pounds  weight. 

How  fair  the  vine  must  grow 

Whose  grapes  are  so  luscious; 

How  warm  the  wind  must  blow 

Through  those  fruit  bushes." 

"  No/'  said  Lizzie;  "  No,  no,  no; 

Their  offers  should  not  charm  us, 

Their  evil  gifts  would  harm  us." 

She  thrust  a  dimpled  finger 

In  each  ear,  shut  eyes  and  ran : 

Curious  Laura  chose  to  linger 

Wondering  at  each  merchant  man. 

One  had  a  cat's  face, 

One  whisked  a  tail, 

One  tramped  at  a  rat's  pace, 

One  crawled  like  a  snail, 

One  like  a  wombat  prowled  obtuse  and  furry, 

One  like  a  ratel  tumbled  hurry  skurry. 

She  heard  a  voice  like  voice  of  doves 

Cooing  all  together: 

They  sounded  kind  and  full  of  loves 

In  the  pleasant  weather. 


Laura  stretched  her  gleaming  neck 
Like  a  rush-embedded  swan, 
Like  a  lily  from  the  beck, 
Like  a  moonlit  poplar  branch, 
Like  a  vessel  at  the  launch 
When  its  last  restraint  is  gone. 


Backwards  up  the  mossy  glen 
Turned  and  trooped  the  goblin  men, 
With  their  shrill  repeated  cry, 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy." 
When  they  reached  where  Laura  was 
They  stood  stock  still  upon  the  moss, 
Leering  at  each  other, 
Brother  with  queer  brother; 
Signalling  each  other, 
Brother  with  sly  brother. 


LONGER  POEMS  341 

One  set  his  basket  down, 

One  reared  his  plate; 

One  began  to  weave  a  crown, 

Of  tendrils,  leaves  and  rough  nuts  brown 

(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town); 

One  heaved  the  golden  weight 

Of  dish  and  fruit  to  offer  her: 

"  Come  buy,  come  buy,"  was  still  their  cry. 

Laura  stared  but  did  not  stir, 

Longed  but  had  no  money: 

The  whisk-tailed  merchant  bade  her  taste 

In  tones  as  smooth  as  honey, 

The  cat-faced  purr'd, 

The  rat-paced  spoke  a  word 

Of  welcome,  and  the  snail-paced  even  was  heard; 

One  parrot- voiced  and  jolly 

Cried  "Pretty  Goblin  "  still  for  "Pretty  Polly  ";— 

One  whistled  like  a  bird. 


But  sweet-tooth  Laura  spoke  in  haste : 
"  Good  folk,  I  have  no  coin; 
To  take  were  to  purloin: 
I  have  no  copper  in  my  purse, 
I  have  no  silver  either, 
And  all  my  gold  is  on  the  furze 
That  shakes  in  windy  weather 
Above  the  rusty  heather." 
"  You  have  much  gold  upon  your  head," 
They  answered  altogether: 
"  Buy  from  us  with  a  golden  curl." 
She  clipped  a  precious  golden  lock, 
She  dropped  a  tear  more  rare  than  pearl, 
Then  sucked  their  fruit  globes  fair  or  red  : 
Sweeter  than  honey  from  the  rock, 
Stronger  than  man-rejoicing  wine, 
Clearer  than  water  flowed  that  juice; 
She  never  tasted  such  before, 
How  could  it  cloy  with  length  of  use  ? 
She  sucked  and  sucked  and  sucked  the  more 
Fruits  which  that  unknown  orchard  bore; 
She  sucked  until  her  lips  were  sore; 
Then  flung  the  emptied  rinds  away 


342       THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

But  gathered  up  one  kernel-stone, 
And  knew  not  was  it  night  or  day 
As  she  turned  home  alone. 

Lizzie  met  her  at  the  gate 
Full  of  wise  upbraidings: 

Dear,  you  should  not  stay  so  late, 
Twilight  is  not  good  for  maidens ; 
Should  not  loiter  in  the  glen 
In  the  haunts  of  goblin  men. 
Do  you  not  remember  Jeanie, 
How  she  met  them  in  the  moonlight, 
Took  their  gifts  both  choice  and  many, 
Ate  their  fruits  and  wore  their  flowers 
Plucked  from  bowers 
Where  summer  ripens  at  all  hours  ? 
But  ever  in  the  noonlight 
She  pined  and  pined  away; 
Sought  them  by  night  and  day, 
Found  them  no  more  but  dwindled  and  grew  grey; 
Then  fell  with  the  first  snow, 
While  to  this  day  no  grass  will  grow 
Where  she  lies  low: 
I  planted  daisies  there  a  year  ago 
That  never  blow. 
You  should  not  loiter  so." 
"  Nay,  hush,"  said  Laura: 
"  Nay,  hush,  my  sister: 
I  ate  and  ate  my  fill, 
Yet  my  mouth  waters  still; 

To-morrow  night  I  will  buy  more  ":  and  kissed  her: 
"  Have  done  with  sorrow; 
I'll  bring  you  plums  to-morrow 
Fresh  on  their  mother  twigs, 
Cherries  worth  getting; 
You  cannot  think  what  figs 
My  teeth  have  met  in, 
What  melons  icy-cold 
Piled  on  a  dish  of  gold 
Too  huge  for  me  to  hold, 
What  peaches  with  a  velvet  nap, 
Pellucid  grapes  without  one  seed: 
Odorous  indeed  must  be  the  mead 


LONGER   POEMS  343 

Whereon  they  grow,  and  pure  the  wave  they  drink 
With  lilies  at  the  brink, 
And  sugar-sweet  their  sap." 

Golden  head  by  golden  head, 
Like  two  pigeons  in  one  nest 
Folded  in  each  other's  wings, 
They  lay  down  in  their  curtained  bed : 
Like  two  blossoms  on  one  stem, 
Like  two  flakes  of  new-fall'n  snow, 
Like  two  wands  of  ivory 
Tipped  with  gold  for  awful  kings. 
Moon  and  stars  gazed  in  at  them, 
Wind  sang  to  them  lullaby, 
Lumbering  owls  forbore  to  fly, 
Not  a  bat  flapped  to  and  fro 
Round  their  rest: 

Cheek  to  cheek  and  breast  to  breast 
Locked  together  in  one  nest. 

Early  in  the  morning 
When  the  first  cock  crowed  his  warning, 
Neat  like  bees,  as  sweet  and  busy, 
Laura  rose  with  Lizzie: 
Fetched  in  honey,  milked  the  cows, 
Aired  and  set  to  rights  the  house, 
Kneaded  cakes  of  whitest  wheat, 
Cakes  for  dainty  mouths  to  eat, 
Next  churned  butter,  whipped  up  cream, 
Fed  their  poultry,  sat  and  sewed ; 
Talked  as  modest  maidens  should: 
Lizzie  with  an  open  heart, 
Laura  in  an  absent  dream, 
One  content,  one  sick  in  part; 
One  warbling  for  the  mere  bright  day's  delight, 
One  longing  for  the  night. 

At  length  slow  evening  came : 
They  went  with  pitchers  to  the  reedy  brook; 
Lizzie  most  placid  in  her  look, 
Laura  most  like  a  leaping  flame. 
They  drew  the  gurgling  water  from  its  deep; 
Lizzie  plucked  purple  and  rich  golden  flags, 
Then  turning  homewards  said:   "  The  sunset  flushes 

M  746 


344       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Those  furthest  loftiest  crags ; 

Come,  Laura,  not  another  maiden  lags, 

No  wilful  squirrel  wags, 

The  beasts  and  birds  are  fast  asleep," 

But  Laura  loitered  still  among  the  rushes 

And  said  the  bank  was  steep. 

And  said  the  hour  was  early  still, 
The  dew  not  f all'n,  the  wind  not  chill : 
Listening  ever,  but  not  catching 
The  customary  cry, 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy," 
With  its  iterated  jingle 
Of  sugar-baited  words : 
Not  for  all  her  watching 
Once  discerning  even  one  goblin 
Raving,  whisking,  tumbling,  hobbling; 
Let  alone  the  herds 
That  used  to  tramp  along  the  glen, 
In  groups  or  single, 
Of  brisk  fruit-merchant  men. 

Till  Lizzie  urged,  "  0  Laura,  come; 
I  hear  the  fruit-call  but  I  dare  not  look: 
You  should  not  loiter  longer  at  this  brook : 
Come  with  me  home. 
The  stars  rise,  the  moon  bends  her  arc, 
Each  glowworm  winks  her  spark, 
Let  us  get  home  before  the  night  grows  dark : 
For  clouds  may  gather 
Though  this  is  summer  weather, 
Put  out  the  lights  and  drench  us  through; 
Then  if  we  lost  our  way  what  should  we  do?'" 

Laura  turned  cold  as  stone 
To  find  her  sister  heard  that  cry  alone, 
That  goblin  cry, 

"  Come  buy  our  fruits,  come  buy." 
Must  she  then  buy  no  more  such  dainty  fruits  ? 
Must  she  no  more  that  succous  pasture  find, 
Gone  deaf  and  blind  ? 
Her  tree  of  life  drooped  from  the  root: 
She  said  not  one  word  in  her  heart's  sore  ache; 


LONGER  POEMS  345 

But  peering  thro'  the  dimness,  nought  discerning, 

Trudged  home,  her  pitcher  dripping  all  the  way; 

So  crept  to  bed,  and  lay 

Silent  till  Lizzie  slept; 

Then  sat  up  in  a  passionate  yearning. 

And  gnashed  her  teeth  for  baulked  desire,  and  wept 

As  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
Laura  kept  watch  in  vain 
In  sullen  silence  of  exceeding  pain. 
She  never  caught  again  the  goblin  cry : 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy  " ; — 
She  never  spied  the  goblin  men 
Hawking  their  fruits  along  the  glen: 
But  when  the  moon  waxed  bright 
Her  hair  grew  thin  and  grey; 
She  dwindled,  as  the  fair  full  moon  doth  turn 
To  swift  decay  and  burn 
Her  fire  away. 

One  day  remembering  her  kernel-stone 
She  set  it  by  a  wall  that  faced  the  south; 
Dewed  it  with  tears,  hoped  for  a  root 
Watched  for  a  waxing  shoot, 
But  there  came  none; 
It  never  saw  the  sun, 
It  never  felt  the  trickling  moisture  run: 
While  with  sunk  eyes  and  faded  mouth 
She  dreamed  of  melons,  as  a  traveller  sees 
False  waves  in  desert  drouth 
With  shade  of  leaf-crowned  trees, 
And  burns  the  thirstier  in  the  sandful  breeze. 

She  no  more  swept  the  house, 
Tended  the  fowls  or  cows, 
Fetched  honey,  kneaded  cakes  of  wheat, 
Brought  water  from  the  brook: 
But  sat  down  listless  in  the  chimney-nook 
And  would  not  eat. 

Tender  Lizzie  could  not  bear 
To  watch  her  sister's  cankerous  care 
Yet  not  to  share. 


346       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

She  night  and  morning 

Caught  the  goblins'  cry: 

"  Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits, 

Come  buy,  come  buy:  " — 

Beside  the  brook,  along  the  glen, 

She  heard  the  tramp  of  goblin  men, 

The  voice  and  stir 

Poor  Laura  could  not  hear; 

Longed  to  buy  fruit  to  comfort  her, 

But  feared  to  pay  too  dear. 

She  thought  of  Jeanie  in  her  grave, 

Who  should  have  been  a  bride; 

But  who  for  joys  brides  hope  to  have 

Fell  sick  and  died 

In  her  gay  prime, 

In  earliest  Winter  time, 

With  the  first  glazing  rime, 

With  the  first  snow-fall  of  crisp  Winter  time. 

Till  Laura  dwindling 
Seemed  knocking  at  Death's  door: 
Then  Lizzie  weighed  no  more 
Better  and  worse; 

But  put  a  silver  penny  in  her  purse, 
Kissed  Laura,  crosed  the  heath  with  clumps  of  furze 
At  twilight,  halted  by  the  brook: 
And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Began  to  listen  and  look. 

Laughed  every  goblin 
When  they  spied  her  peeping: 
Come  towards  her  hobbling, 
Flying,  running,  leaping, 
Puffing  and  blowing, 
Chuckling,  clapping,  crowing, 
Clucking  and  gobbling, 
Mopping  and  mowing, 
Full  of  airs  and  graces, 
Pulling  wry  faces, 
Demure  grimaces. 
Cat-like  and  rat-like, 
Ratel-  and  wombat-like, 
Snail-paced  in  a  hurry, 


LONGER  POEMS  347 

Parrot-voiced  and  whistler, 
Helter  skelter,  hurry  skurry, 
Chattering  like  magpies, 
Fluttering  like  pigeons, 
Gliding  like  fishes, — 
Hugged  her  and  kissed  her, 
Squeezed  and  caressed  her: 
Stretched  up  their  dishes, 
Panniers  and  plates : 
"  Look  at  our  apples 
Russet  and  dun, 
Bob  at  our  cherries, 
Bite  at  our  peaches, 
Citrons  and  dates, 
Grapes  for  the  asking, 
Pears  red  with  basking 
Out  in  the  sun, 
Plums  on  their  twigs ; 
Pluck  them  and  suck  them, 
Pomegranates,  figs." — 

"  Good  folk,"  said  Lizzie, 
Mindful  of  Jeanie : 
"  Give  me  much  and  many  " : — 
Held  out  her  apron, 
Tossed  them  her  penny. 
"  Nay,  take  a  seat  with  us, 
Honour  and  eat  with  us;  " 
They  answered  grinning: 
"  Our  feast  is  but  beginning. 
Night  is  yet  early, 
Warm  and  dew-pearly, 
Wakeful  and  starry: 
Such  fruits  as  these 
No  man  can  carry; 
Half  their  bloom  would  fly, 
Half  their  dew  would  dry, 
Half  their  flavour  would  pass  by. 
Sit  down  and  feast  with  us, 
Be  welcome  guest  with  us, 
Cheer  you  and  rest  with  us." — 
"  Thank  you,"  said  Lizzie:  "  But  one  waits 
At  home  alone  for  me: 


348       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

So  without  further  parleying, 

If  you  will  not  sell  me  any 

Of  your  fruits  though  much  and  many, 

Give  me  back  my  silver  penny 

I  tossed  you  for  a  fee." — 

They  began  to  scratch  their  pates, 

No  longer  wagging,  purring, 

But  visibly  demurring, 

Grunting  and  snarling. 

One  called  her  proud, 

Cross-grained,  uncivil; 

Their  tones  waxed  loud, 

Their  looks  were  evil. 

Lashing  their  tails 

They  trod  and  hustled  her, 

Elbowed  and  jostled  her, 

Clawed  with  their  nails, 

Barking,  mewing,  hissing,  mocking, 

Tore  her  gown  and  soiled  her  stockings, 

Twitched  her  hair  out  by  the  roots, 

Stamped  upon  her  tender  feet, 

Held  her  hands  and  squeezed  their  fruits 

Against  her  mouth  to  make  her  eat. 

White  and  golden  Lizzie  stood, 
Like  a  lily  in  a  flood, — 
Like  a  rock  of  blue-veined  stone 
Lashed  by  tides  obstreperously, — 
Like  a  beacon  left  alone 
In  a  hoary  roaring  sea, 
Sending  up  a  golden  fire, — 
Like  a  fruit-crowned  orange-tree 
White  with  blossoms  honey-sweet 
Sore  beset  by  wasp  and  bee, — 
Like  a  royal  virgin  town 
Topped  with  gilded  dome  and  spire 
Close  beleaguered  by  a  fleet 
Mad  to  tug  her  standard  down. 

One  may  lead  a  horse  to  water, 
Twenty  cannot  make  him  drink. 
Though  the  goblins  cuffed  and  caught  her, 
Coaxed  and  fought  her, 


LONGER  POEMS  349 

Bullied  and  besought  her, 

Scratched  her,  pinched  her  black  as  ink, 

Kicked  and  knocked  her, 

Mauled  and  mocked  her, 

Lizzie  uttered  not  a  word ; 

Would  not  open  lip  from  lip 

Lest  they  should  cram  a  mouthful  in: 

But  laughed  in  heart  to  feel  the  drip 

Of  juice  that  syrupped  all  her  face, 

And  lodged  in  dimples  of  her  chin, 

And  streaked  her  neck  which  quaked  like  curd. 

At  last  the  evil  people 

Worn  out  by  her  resistance 

Flung  back  her  penny,  kicked  their  fruit 

Along  whichever  road  they  took, 

Not  leaving  root  or  stone  or  shoot; 

Some  writhed  into  the  ground, 

Some  dived  into  the  brook 

With  ring  and  ripple, 

Some  scudded  on  the  gale  without  a  sound 

Some  vanished  in  the  distance. 

In  a  smart,  ache,  tingle, 
Lizzie  went  her  way: 
Knew  not  was  it  night  or  day ; 
Sprang  up  the  bank,  tore  thro'  the  furze, 
Threaded  copse  and  dingle, 
And  heard  her  penny  jingle 
Bouncing  in  her  purse, — 
Its  bounce  was  music  to  her  ear. 
She  ran  and  ran 

As  if  she  feared  some  goblin  man 
Dogged  her  with  gibe  or  curse 
Or  something  worse: 
But  not  one  goblin  scurried  after, 
Nor  was  she  pricked  by  fear; 
The  kind  heart  made  her  windy-paced 
That  urged  her  home  quite  out  of  breath  with  haste 
And  inward  laughter. 

She  cried  "  Laura/'  up  the  garden, 
""  Did  you  miss  me? 
Come  and  kiss  me. 


350       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Never  mind  my  bruises, 

Hug  me,  kiss  me,  suck  my  juices 

Squeezed  from  goblin  fruits  for  you, 

Goblin  pulp  and  goblin  dew. 

Eat  me,  drink  me,  love  me; 

Laura,  make  much  of  me : 

For  your  sake  I  have  braved  the  glen 

And  had  to  do  with  goblin  merchant  men." 

Laura  started  from  her  chair, 
Flung  her  arms  up  in  the  air, 
Clutched  her  hair: 
"  Lizzie,  Lizzie,  have  you  tasted 
For  my  sake  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 
Must  your  light  like  mine  be  hidden, 
Your  young  life  like  mine  be  wasted, 
Undone  in  mine  undoing 
And  ruined  in  my  ruin, 
Thirsty,  cankered,- goblin-ridden  ?  " — 
She  clung  about  her  sister, 
Kissed  and  kissed  and  kissed  her : 
Tears  once  again 
Refreshed  her  sunken  eyes, 
Dropping  like  rain 
After  long  sultry  drouth; 
Shaking  with  aguish  fear,  and  pain, 
She  kissed  and  kissed  her  with  a  hungry  mouth. 

Her  lips  began  to  scorch, 
That  juice  was  wormwood  to  her  tongue, 
She  loathed  the  feast: 

Writhing  as  one  possessed  she  leaped  and  sung, 
Rent  all  her  robe,  and  wrung 
Her  hands  in  lamentable  haste, 
And  beat  her  breast. 
Her  locks  streamed  like  the  torch 
Borne  by  a  racer  at  full  speed, 
Or  like  the  mane  of  horses  in  their  flight, 
Or  like  an  eagle  when  he  stems  the  light 
Straight  toward  the  sun, 
Or  like  a  caged  thing  freed, 
Or  like  a  flying  flag  when  armies  run. 


LONGER  POEMS  351 

Swift  fire  spread  through  her  veins,  knocked  at  her  heart, 
Met  the  fire  smouldering  there 
And  overbore  its  lesser  flame; 
She  gorged  on  bitterness  without  a  name: 
Ah !  fool,  to  choose  such  part 
Of  soul-consuming  care ! 
Sense  failed  in  the  mortal  strife : 
Like  the  watch-tower  of  a  town 
Which  an  earthquake  shatters  down, 
Like  a  lightning-stricken  mast, 
Like  a  wind-uprooted  tree 
Spun  about, 

Like  a  foam-topped  waterspout 
Cast  down  headlong  in  the  sea, 
She  fell  at  last; 

Pleasure  past  and  anguish  past, 
Is  it  death  or  is  it  life  ? 

Life  out  of  death. 

That  night  long  Lizzie  watched  by  her, 
Counted  her  pulse's  flagging  stir, 
Felt  for  her  breath, 

Held  water  to  her  lips,  and  cooled  her  face 
With  tears  and  fanning  leaves : 
But  when  the  first  birds  chirped  about  their  eaves, 
And  early  reapers  plodded  to  the  place 
Of  golden  sheaves, 
And  dew-wet  grass 

Bowed  in  the  morning  winds  so  brisk  to  pass, 
And  new  buds  with  new  day 
Opened  of  cup-like  lilies  on  the  stream, 
Laura  awoke  as  from  a  dream, 
Laughed  in  the  innocent  old  way, 
Hugged  Lizzie  but  not  twice  or  thrice; 
Her  gleaming  locks  showed  not  one  thread  of  grey, 
Her  breath  was  sweet  as  May 
And  light  danced  in  her  eyes. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  years, 
Afterwards,  when  both  were  wives 
With  children  of  their  own; 
Their  mother-hearts  beset  with  fears, 
Their  lives  bound  up  in  tender  lives; 


352       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Laura  would  call  the  little  ones 

And  tell  them  of  her  early  prime,, 

Those  pleasant  days  long  gone 

Of  not-returning  time: 

Would  talk  about  the  haunted  glen. 

The  wicked,  quaint  fruit-merchant  men, 

Their  fruits  like  honey  to  the  throat 

But  poison  in  the  blood ; 

(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town:) 

Would  tell  them  how  her  sister  stood 

In  deadly  peril  to  do  her  good, 

And  win  the  fiery  antidote: 

Then  joining  hands  to  little  hands 

Would  bid  them  cling  together, 

"  For  there  is  no  friend  like  a  sister 

In  calm  or  stormy  weather; 

To  cheer  one  on  the  tedious  way, 

To  fetch  one  if  one  goes  astray, 

To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down, 

To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands." 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

THE  blessed  Damozel  lean'd  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven: 

Her  blue  grave  eyes  were  deeper  much 
Than  a  deep  water,  even. 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift 
On  the  neck  meetly  worn; 

And  her  hair,  lying  down  her  back, 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseem'd  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 


LONGER  POEMS  353 

Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 
Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one  it  is  ten  years  of  years : 
.  .  .  Yet  now,  here  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  lean'd  o'er  me, — her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 

Nothing:  the  Autumn-fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  terrace  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on, — 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

In  which  Space  is  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence, 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  from  Heaven  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

But  in  those  tracts,  with  her,  it  was 

The  peace  of  utter  light 
And  silence.   For  no  breeze  may  stir 

Along  the  steady  flight 
Of  seraphim;  no  echo  there, 

Beyond  all  depth  or  height. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends, 

Playing  at  holy  games, 
Spake,  gentle-mouth' d,  among  themselves, 

Their  virginal  chaste  names ; 
And  the  souls,  mounting  up  to  God, 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bow'd  herself,  and  stoop'd 

Into  the  vast  waste  calm; 
Till  her  bosom's  pressure  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  lean'd  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 


354       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

From  the  fixt  lull  of  Heaven,  she  saw 
Time,  like  a  pulse,  shake  fierce 

Through  all  the  worlds.   Her  gaze  still  strove, 
In  that  steep  gulf,  to  pierce 

The  swarm ;  and  then  she  spoke,  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  pray'd  in  solemn  Heaven? 

On  earth  has  he  not  pray'd? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand,  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light, 
And  we  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
.Whose  lamps  tremble  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  where  each  need,  reveal'd,  expects 

Its  patient  period. 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Sometimes  is  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  his  name  audibly. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, — 

I  myself,  lying  so, — 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  mouth 

Shall  pause  in,  hush'd  and  slow, 
Finding  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

And  some  new  thing  to  know.'7 


LONGER  POEMS  355 

(Alas !  to  her  wise  simple  mind 

These  things  were  all  but  known 
Before:  they  trembled  on  her  sense, — 

Her  voice  had  caught  their  tone. 
Alas,  for  lonely  Heaven!  Alas, 

For  life  wrung  out  alone ! 

Alas,  and  though  the  end  were  reach'd?  .  .  . 

Was  thy  part  understood 
Or  borne  in  trust?   And  for  her  sake 

Shall  this  too  be  found  good? — 
May  the  close  lips  that  knew  not  prayer 

Praise  ever,  though  they  would?) 

"  We  two/'  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
WTith  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies : — 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circle- wise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  bosoms  covered: 
Into  the  fine  cloth,  white  like  flame, 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear  haply,  and  be  dumb. 

Then  I  will  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abash'd  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel — the  unnumber'd  solemn  heads 

Bow'd  with  their  aureoles : 
And  Angels,  meeting  us,  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 


356       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me : — 

To  have  more  blessing  than  on  earth 
In  nowise;  but  to  be 

As  then  we  were; — being  as  then 
At  peace.  Yea,  verily. 

"  Yea,  verily;  when  he  is  come 

We  will  do  thus  and  thus: 
Till  this  my  vigil  seem  quite  strange 

And  almost  fabulous; 
We  two  will  live  at  once,  one  life; 

And  peace  shall  be  with  us." 

She  gazed,  and  listen'd,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

"  All. this  is  when  he  comes."   She  ceased: 
The  light  thrill'd  past  her,  fill'd 

With  Angels,  in  strong  level  lapse. 
Her  eyes  pray'd,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)  But  soon  their  flight 
Was  vague  'mid  the  poised  spheres. 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.  (I  heard  her  tears.) 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CUCHULAIN  * 

A  MAN  came  slowly  from  the  setting  sun, 
To  ForgaiPs  daughter,  Emer,  in  her  dun,2 
And  found  her  dyeing  cloth  with  subtle  care, 
And  said,  casting  aside  his  draggled  hair: 
"  I  am  Aleel,  the  swineherd,  whom  you  bid 
Go  dwell  upon  the  sea  cliffs,  vapour-hid ; 
But  now  my  years  of  watching  are  no  more." 

1  Pronounce  Coohoolan. 

2  Fortified  residence  of  a  chief. 


LONGER   POEMS  357 

Then  Emer  cast  the  web  upon  the  floor, 

And  stretching  out  her  arms,  red  with  the  dye, 

Parted  her  lips  with  a  loud  sudden  cry. 

Looking  on  her,  Aleel,  the  swineherd,  said : 
"  Not  any  god  alive,  nor  mortal  dead, 
Has  slain  so  mighty  armies,  so  great  kings, 
Nor  won  the  gold  that  now  Cuchulain  brings. " 

'  Why  do  you  tremble  thus  from  feet  to  crown?  " 

Aleel,  the  swineherd,  wept  and  cast  him  down 
Upon  the  web-heaped  floor,  and  thus  his  word : 
"  With  him  is  one  sweet-throated  like  a  bird." 

"  Who  bade  you  tell  these  things?  "  and  then  she  cried 
To  those  about,  "  Beat  him  with  thongs  of  hide 
And  drive  him  from  the  door."  And  thus  it  was; 
And  where  her  son,  Finmole,  on  the  smooth  grass 
Was  driving  cattle,  came  she  with  swift  feet, 
And  called  out  to  him,  "  Son,  it  is  not  meet 
That  you  stay  idling  here  with  flocks  and  herds." 

"  I  have  long  waited,  mother,  for  those  words; 
But  wherefore  now?  " 

"  There  is  a  man  to  die; 
You  have  the  heaviest  arm  under  the  sky." 

"  My  father  dwells  among  the  sea- worn  bands, 
And  breaks  the  ridge  of  battle  with  his  hands." 

"  Nay,  you  are  taller  than  Cuchulain,  son." 
"  He  is  the  mightiest  man  in  ship  or  dun." 

"  Nay,  he  is  old  and  sad  with  many  wars, 
And  weary  of  the  crash  of  battle  cars." 

"  I  only  ask  what  way  my  journey  lies, 

For  God,  who  made  you  bitter,  made  you  wise." 

"  The  Red  Branch  kings  a  tireless  banquet  keep, 
Where  the  sun  falls  into  the  Western  deep, 


358       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 

Go  there,  and  dwell  on  the  green  forest  rim ; 
But  tell  alone  your  name  and  house  to  him 
Whose  blade  compels,  and  bid  them  send  you  one 
Who  has  a  like  vow  from  their  triple  dun." 

Between  the  lavish  shelter  of  a  wood 
And  the  grey  tide,  the  Red  Branch  multitude 
Feasted,  and  with  them  old  Cuchulain  dwelt, 
And  his  young  dear  one  close  beside  him  knelt, 
And  gazed  upon  the  wisdom  of  his  eyes, 
More  mournful  than  the  depth  of  starry  skies, 
And  pondered  on  the  wonder  of  his  days ; 
And  all  around  the  harp-string  told  his  praise, 
And  Concobar.1  the  Red  Branch  king  of  kings, 
With  his  own  fingers  touched  the  brazen  strings. 

At  last  Cuchulain  spake,  "  A  young  man  strays 
Driving  the  deer  along  the  woody  ways. 
I  often  hear  him  singing  to  and  fro, 
I  often  hear  the  sweet  sound  of  his  bow. 
Seek  out  what  man  he  is." 

One  went  and  came. 

"  He  bade  me  let  all  know  he  gives  his  name 
At  the  sword  point,  and  bade  me  bring  him  one 
Who  had  a  like  vow  from  our  triple  dun." 

"  I  only  of  the  Red  Branch  hosted  now," 
Cuchulain  cried,  "  have  made  and  keep  that  vow." 

After  short  fighting  in  the  leafy  shade, 

He  spake  to  the  young  man,  "  Is  there  no  maid 

Who  loves  you,  no  white  arms  to  wrap  you  round, 

Or  do  you  long  for  the  dim  sleepy  ground, 

That  you  come  here  to  meet  this  ancient  sword?  " 

"  The  dooms  of  men  are  in  God's  hidden  hoard." 

"  Your  head  a  while  seemed  like  a  woman's  head 
That  I  loved  once." 

Again  the  fighting  sped, 
But  now  the  war  rage  in  Cuchulain  woke, 
And  through  the  other's  shield  his  long  blade  broke, 
And  pierced  him. 

"  Speak  before  your  breath  is  done." 

1  Connor. 


LONGER  POEMS  359 

"  I  am  Finmole,  mighty  Cuchulain's  son." 
"  I  put  you  from  your  pain.  I  can  no  more." 

While  day  its  burden  on  to  evening  bore, 

With  head  bowed  on  his  knees  Cuchulain  stayed; 

Then  Concobar  sent  that  sweet-throated  maid, 

And  she,  to  win  him,  his  grey  hair  caressed: 

In  vain  her  arms,  in  vain  her  soft  white  breast. 

Then  Concobar,  the  subtlest  of  all  men, 

Ranking  his  Druids  round  him  ten  by  ten, 

Spake  thus,  "  Cuchulain  will  dwell  there  and  brood, 

For  three  days  more  in  dreadful  quietude, 

And  then  arise,  and  raving  slay  us  all. 

Go,  cast  on  him  delusions  magical, 

That  he  may  fight  the  waves  of  the  loud  sea." 

And  ten  by  ten  under  a  quicken  tree,1 

The  Druids  chaunted,  swaying  in  their  hands 

Tall  wands  of  alder  and  white  quicken  wands. 

In  three  days'  time,  Cuchulain  with  a  moan 
Stood  up,  and  came  to  the  long  sands  alone : 
For  four  days  warred  he  with  the  bitter  tide; 
And  the  waves  flowed  above  him,  and  he  died. 

W.  B.  YEATS. 


WORDSWORTH'S  GRAVE 

i 

THE  old  rude  church,  with  bare,  bald  tower,  is  here; 
Beneath  its  shadow  high-born  Rotha  flows; 
Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near, 
And  with  cool  murmur  lulling  his  repose. 

Rotha,  remembering  well  who  slumbers  near. 
His  hills,  his  lakes,  his  streams  are  with  him  yet. 
Surely  the  heart  that  read  her  own  heart  clear 
Nature  forgets  not  soon:  'tis  we  forget. 

We  that  with  vagrant  soul  his  fixity 
Have  slighted;  faithless,  done  his  deep  faith  wrong; 
Left  him  for  poorer  loves,  and  bowed  the  knee 
To  misbegotten  strange  new  gods  of  song. 
1  Mountain-ash ;   rowan. 


360       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Yet,  led  by  hollow  ghost  or  beckoning  elf 
Far  from  her  homestead  to  the  desert  bourn , 
The  vagrant  soul  returning  to  herself 
Wearily  wise,  must  needs  to  him  return. 

To  him  and  to  the  powers  that  with  him  dwell: 
Inflowings  that  divulged  not  whence  they  came; 
And  that  secluded  spirit  unknowable, 
The  mystery  we  make  darker  with  a  name; 

The  Somewhat  which  we  name  but  cannot  know, 
Ev'n  as  we  name  a  star  and  only  see 
His  quenchless  flashings  forth,  which  ever  show 
And  ever  hide  him,  and  which  are  not  he. 


Poet  who  sleepest  by  this  wandering  wave ! 
When  thou  wast  born,  what  birth-gift  hadst  thou  then? 
To  thee  what  wealth  was  that  the  Immortals  gave, 
The  wealth  thou  gavest  in  thy  turn  to  men? 

Not  Milton's  keen,  translunar  music  thine; 

Not  Shakespeare's  cloudless,  boundless  human  view; 

Not  Shelley's  flush  of  rose  on  peaks  divine; 

Nor  yet  the  wizard  twilight  Coleridge  knew. 

What  hadst  thou  that  could  make  so  large  amends 
For  all  thou  hadst  not  and  thy  peers  possessed, 
Motion  and  fire,  swift  means  to  radiant  ends  ? — 
Thou  hadst,  for  weary  feet,  the  gift  of  rest. 

From  Shelley's  dazzling  glow  or  thunderous  haze, 
From  Byron's  tempest-anger,  tempest-mirth, 
Men  turned  to  thee  and  found — not  blast  and  blaze, 
Tumult  of  tottering  heavens,  but  peace  on  earth. 

Nor  peace  that  grows  by  Lethe,  scentless  flower, 
There  in  white  languors  to  decline  and  cease; 
But  peace  whose  names  are  also  rapture,  power, 
Clear  sight,  and  love :  for  these  are  parts  of  peace. 


LONGER  POEMS  361 

in 

I  hear  it  vouched  the  Muse  is  with  us  still ; — 
If  less  divinely  frenzied  than  of  yore, 
In  lieu  of  feelings  she  has  wondrous  skill 
To  simulate  emotion  felt  no  more. 

Not  such  the  authentic  Presence  pure,  that  made 
This  valley  vocal  in  the  great  days  gone ! — 
In  his  great  days,  while  yet  the  spring-time  played 
About  him,  and  the  mighty  morning  shone. 

No  word-mosaic  artificer,  he  sang 

A  lofty  song  of  lowly  weal  and  dole. 

Right  from  the  heart,  right  to  the  heart  it  sprang, 

Or  from  the  soul  leapt  instant  to  the  soul. 

He  felt  the  charm  of  childhood,  grace  of  youth, 
Grandeur  of  age,  insisting  to  be  sung. 
The  impassioned  argument  was  simple  truth 
Half- wondering  at  its  own  melodious  tongue. 

Impassioned?  ay,  to  the  song's  ecstatic  core! 
But  far  removed  were  clangour,  storm  and  feud; 
For  plenteous  health  was  his,  exceeding  store 
Of  joy,  and  an  impassioned  quietude. 


IV 

A  hundred  years  ere  he  to  manhood  came, 
Song  from  celestial  heights  had  wandered  down, 
Put  off  her  robe  of  sunlight,  dew  and  flame, 
And  donned  a  modish  dress  to  charm  the  Town. 

Thenceforth  she  but  festooned  the  porch  of  things; 
Apt  at  life's  lore,  incurious  what  life  meant. 
Dextrous  of  hand,  she  struck  her  lute's  few  strings, 
Ignobly  perfect,  barrenly  content. 

Unflushed  with  ardour  and  unblanched  with  awe, 
Her  lips  in  profitless  derision  curled, 
She  saw  with  dull  emotion — if  she  saw — 
The  vision  of  the  glory  of  the  world. 


362       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

The  human  masque  she  watched,  with  dreamless  eyes 
In  whose  clear  shallows  lurked  no  trembling  shade: 
The  stars,  unkenned  by  her,  might  set  and  rise, 
Unmarked  by  her,  the  daisies  bloom  and  fade. 

The  age  grew  sated  with  her  sterile  wit. 
Herself  waxed  weary  on  her  loveless  throne. 
Men  felt  life's  tide,  the  sweep  and  surge  of  it, 
And  craved  a  living  voice,  a  natural  tone. 

For  none  the  less,  though  song  was  but  half  true, 
The  world  lay  common,  one  abounding  theme. 
Man  joyed  and  wept,  and  fate  was  ever  new, 
And  love  was  sweet,  life  real,  death  no  dream. 

In  sad  stern  verse  the  rugged  scholar-sage 
Bemoaned  his  toil  unvalued,  youth  uncheered. 
His  numbers  wore  the  vesture  of  the  age, 
But,  'neath  it  beating,  the  great  heart  was  heard. 

From  dewy  pastures,  uplands  sweet  with  thyme, 

A  virgin  breeze  freshened  the  jaded  day. 

It  wafted  Collins'  lonely  vesper-chime, 

It  breathed  abroad  the  frugal  note  of  Gray. 

It  fluttered  here  and  there,  nor  swept  in  vain 
The  dusty  haunts  where  futile  echoes  dwell, — 
Then,  in  a  cadence  soft  as  summer  rain, 
And  sad  from  Auburn  voiceless,  drooped  and  fell. 

It  drooped  and  fell,  and  one  'neath  northern  skies, 
With  southern  heart,  who  tilled  his  father's  field, 
Found  Poesy  a-dying,  bade  her  rise 
And  touch  quick  nature's  hem  and  go  forth  healed. 

On  life's  broad  plain  the  ploughman's  conquering  share 
Upturned  the  fallow  lands  of  truth  anew, 
And  o'er  the  formal  garden's  trim  parterre 
The  peasant's  team  a  ruthless  furrow  drew. 

Bright  was  his  going  forth,  but  clouds  ere  long 
Whelmed  him;  in  gloom  his  radiance  set,  and  those 
Twin  morning  stars  of  the  new  century's  song, 
Those  morning  stars  that  sang  together,  rose. 


LONGER  POEMS  363 

In  elfish  speech  the  Dreamer  told  his  tale 
Of  marvellous  oceans  swept  by  fateful  wings. — 
The  Seer  strayed  not  from  earth's  human  pale, 
But  the  mysterious  face  of  common  things 

He  mirrored  as  the  moon  in  Rydal  Mere 
Is  mirrored,  when  the  breathless  night  hangs  blue: 
Strangely  remote  she  seems  and  wondrous  near, 
And  by  some  nameless  difference  born  anew. 


Peace — peace — and  rest !  Ah,  how  the  lyre  is  loth, 
Or  powerless  now,  to  give  what  all  men  seek: 
Either  it  deadens  with  ignoble  sloth 
Or  deafens  with  shrill  tumult,  loudly  weak. 

Where  is  the  singer  whose  large  notes  and  clear 
Can  heal  and  arm  and  plenish  and  sustain? 
Lo,  one  with  empty  music  floods  the  ear, 
And  one,  the  heart  refreshing,  tires  the  brain. 

And  idly  tuneful,  the  loquacious  throng 
Flutter  and  twitter,  prodigal  of  time, 
And  little  masters  make  a  toy  of  song 
Till  grave  men  weary  of  the  sound  of  rhyme. 

And  some  go  prankt  in  faded  antique  dress, 
Abhorring  to  be  hale  and  glad  and  free; 
And  some  parade  a  conscious  naturalness, 
The  scholar's  not  the  child's  simplicity, 

Enough; — and  wisest  who  from  words  forbear, 
The  kindly  river  rails  not  as  it  glides; 
And  suave  and  charitable,  the  winning  air 
Chides  not  at  all,  or  only  him  who  chides. 


VI 

Nature !  we  storm  thine  ear  with  choric  notes. 
Thou  answerest  through  the  calm  great  nights  and  days, 
"  Laud  me  who  will:  not  tuneless  are  your  throats; 
Yet  if  ye  paused  I  should  not  miss  the  praise." 


364       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

We  falter,  half-rebuked,  and  sing  again. 
We  chant  thy  desertness  and  haggard  gloom, 
Or  with  thy  splendid  wrath  inflate  the  strain, 
Or  touch  it  with  thy  colour  and  perfume. 

One,  his  melodious  blood  aflame  for  thee, 
Wooed  with  fierce  lust,  his  hot  heart  world-defiled. 
One,  with  the  upward  eye  of  infancy, 
Looked  in  thy  face  and  felt  himself  thy  child. 

Thee  he  approached  without  distrust  or  dread — 
Beheld  thee  throned,  an  awful  queen,  above — 
Climbed  to  thy  lap  and  merely  laid  his  head 
Against  thy  warm  wild  heart  of  mother-love. 

He  heard  that  vast  heart  beating — thou  didst  press 
Thy  child  so  close,  and  lov'dst  him  unaware. 
Thy  beauty  gladdened  him;  yet  he  scarce  less 
Had  loved  thee,  had  he  never  found  thee  fair ! 

For  thou  wast  not  as  legendary  lands 
To  which  with  curious  eyes  and  ears  we  roam. 
Nor  wast  thou  as  a  fane  'mid  solemn  sands, 
Where  palmers  halt  at  evening.  Thou  wast  home. 

And  here,  at  home,  still  bides  he;  but  he  sleeps; 
Not  to  be  wakened  even  at  thy  word; 
Though  we,  vague  dreamers,  dream  he  somewhere  keeps 
An  ear  still  open  to  thy  voice  still  heard, — 

Thy  voice,  as  heretofore,  about  him  blown, 

For  ever  blown  about  his  silence  now; 

Thy  voice,  though  deeper,  yet  so  like  his  own 

That  almost,  when  he  sang,  we  dreamed  'twas  thou ! 

VII 

Behind  Helm  Crag  and  Silver  Howe  the  sheen 
Of  the  retreating  day  is  less  and  less. 
Soon  will  the  lordlier  summits,  here  unseen, 
Gather  the  night  about  their  nakedness. 

The  half-heard  bleat  of  sheep  comes  from  the  hill. 
Faint  sounds  of  childish  play  are  in  the  air. 
The  river  murmurs  past.  All  else  is  still. 
The  very  graves  seem  stiller  than  they  were. 


LONGER  POEMS  365 

Afar  though  nation  be  on  nation  hurled, 
And  life  with  toil  and  ancient  pain  depressed, 
Here  one  may  scarce  believe  the  whole  wide  world 
Is  not  at  peace,  and  all  man's  heart  at  rest. 

Rest!  'twas  the  gift  he  gave;  and  peace!  the  shade 
He  spread,  for  spirits  fevered  with  the  sun. 
To  him  his  bounties  are  come  back — here  laid 
In  rest,  in  peace,  his  labour  nobly  done. 

WILLIAM  WATSON. 

AUTHOR'S  NOTE,  1921. — Wordsworth's  Grave  was  begun  at  Rydal, 
in  May  1884,  finished  rather  more  than  three  years  later,  and  first 
published  in  the  National  Review  for  September  1887.  In  other  words 
it  was  written  during  a  period  when  the  "  ^Esthetic  School "  and  the 
"  New  Euphuists  "  were  very  much  in  evidence,  and  notwithstanding 
its  outwardly  quiet  air,  it  was  really  a  most  militant  manifesto  against 
them  and  all  they  stood  for.  Largely  by  accident  it  has  received  what 
anyone  acquainted  with  my  whole  work  would,  I  think,  agree  with 
me  in  considering  a  disproportionate  amount  of  attention  relative 
to  the  rest  and  it  has  certainly  been  the  main,  if  not  the  only  cause, 
of  my  having  had  the  ridiculously  misplaced  label  "  Wordsworthian  " 
affixed  to  me  by  some  of  the  undiscerning  who  are  still  fairly  numerous. 
Like  everybody  who  possesses  any  literary  judgment  I  am,  as  you 
know,  a  great  lover  of  Wordsworth.  But  a  "  Wordsworthian  "?  Not 
in  the  least.  I  may  quite  possibly  be  the  worst  poet  that  ever  lived, 
but  am  at  any  rate  no  man's  disciple. 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN 

I  FLED  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes,  I  sped ; 
And  shot,  precipitated, 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 

From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed  followed  after. 

But  with  unhurrying  chase, 

And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 

More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
"  All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 


366       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise, 
By  manyja^hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities ; 
(For  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 

Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside). 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide, 
The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue, 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars ; 

Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 

And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  dawn:  Be  sudden;  to  eve:  Be  soon — 
With  thy  young  skyey  blossoms  heap  me  over 

From  this  tremendous  Lover ! 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see ! 

I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit, 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue; 
Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 

But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue ; 

Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  His  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 
Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o'  their  feet-- 
Fear wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 

Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 

And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

Came  on  the  following  Feet, 

And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
"  Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me." 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  of  man  or  maid ; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me ! 


LONGER  POEMS  367 

I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully; 

But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 
"  Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's — share 
With  me  "  (said  I)  "  your  delicate  fellowship; 
Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 
Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses, 

Wantoning 
With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 

Banqueting 

With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace, 
Underneath  her  azured  da'is, 
Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is, 

From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  day  spring." 

So  it  was  done: 

/  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 

/  knew  all  the  swift  importings 
On  the  wilful  face  of  skies ; 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise. 
Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings ; 

All  that's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  with;  made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine — 

With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even, 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine; 
Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat; 

But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart. 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah !  we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 

These  things  and  I;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth; 


368       THE   GOLDEN   TREASURY   OF 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness : 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 

Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 

With  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

And  past  those  noised  Feet 

A  Voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"  Lo!  naught  contents  thee,  who  content'st  not  Me." 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke ! 

My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 

And  smitten  me  to  my  knee ; 

I  am  defenceless  utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 

And  pulled  my  life  upon  me;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o7  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist: 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth,  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah !  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount  ? 

Ah!  must — 

Designer  infinite ! — 

Ah !  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn  with  it  ? 
My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust; 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 
Such  is ;  what  is  to  be  ? 


LONGER  POEMS  369 

The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind  ? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds ; 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity: 
Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round  the  half -glimpse*  d  turrets  slowly  wash  again; 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen,  en  wound 

With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned ; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 

Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 

Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit ; 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea: 
"  And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 

Shattered  in  shard  on  shard  ? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me ! 

Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing ! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught  "  (He  said), 
"  And  human  love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art ! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 
Save  Me,  save  only  Me  ? 

All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms, 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home: 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall: 
Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 

Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly? 
"  Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 
I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me." 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


370       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  GIRL  TO  HER  OWN  OLD  AGE 

LISTEN,  and  when  thy  hand  this  paper  presses, 
0  time-worn  woman,  think  of  her  who  blesses 
What  thy  thin  fingers  touch,  with  her  caresses. 

O  mother,  for  the  weight  of  years  that  break  thee ! 
O  daughter,  for  slow  time  must  yet  awake  thee ! 
And  from  the  changes  of  my  heart  must  make  thee. 

0  fainting  traveller,  morn  is  grey  in  heaven. 
Dost  thou  remember  how  the  clouds  were  driven? 
And  are  they  calm  about  the  fall  of  even  ? 

Pause  near  the  ending  of  thy  long  migration, 
For  this  one  sudden  hour  of  desolation 
Appeals  to  one  hour  of  thy  meditation. 

Suffer,  0  silent  one,  that  I  remind  thee 

Of  the  great  hills  that  stormed  the  sky  behind  thee, 

Of  the  wild  winds  of  power  that  have  resigned  thee. 

Know  that  the  mournful  plain  where  thou  must  wander 
Is  but  a  grey  and  silent  world,  but  ponder 
The  misty  mountains  of  the  morning  yonder. 

Listen : — the  mountain  winds  with  rain  were  fretting, 
And  sudden  gleams  the  mountain-tops  besetting. 

1  cannot  let  thee  fade  to  death,  forgetting. 

What  part  of  this  wild  heart  of  mine  I  know  not 
Will  follow  with  thee  where  the  great  winds  blow  not, 
And  where  the  young  flowers  of  the  mountain  grow  not. 

Yet  let  my  letter  with  thy  lost  thoughts  in  it 
Tell  what  the  way  was  when  thou  didst  begin  it, 
And  win  with  thee  the  goal  when  thou  shalt  win  it. 

Oh,  in  some  hour  of  thine  my  thoughts  shall  guide  thee, 
Suddenly,  though  time,  darkness,  silence  hide  thee, 
This  wind  from  thy,  lost  country  flits  beside  thee, — 


LONGER  POEMS  371 

Telling  thee:  all  thy  memories  moved  the  maiden, 
With  thy  regrets  was  morning  over-shaden, 
With  sorrow  thou  hast  left,  her  life  was  laden. 

But  whither  shall  my  thoughts  turn  to  pursue  thee  ? 
Life  changes,  and  the  years  and  days  renew  thee. 
Oh,  Nature  brings  my  straying  heart  unto  thee. 

Her  winds  will  join  us,  with  their  constant  kisses 

Upon  the  evening  as  the  morning  tresses, 

Her  summers  breathe  the  same  unchanging  blisses. 

And  we,  so  altered  in  our  shifting  phases, 
Track  one  another  'mid  the  many  mazes 
By  the  eternal  child-breath  of  the  daisies. 

I  have  not  writ  this  letter  of  divining 
To  make  a  glory  of  thy  silent  pining, 
A  triumph  of  thy  mute  and  strange  declining. 

Only  one  youth,  and  the  bright  life  was  shrouded. 
Only  one  morning,  and  the  day  was  clouded. 
And  one  old  age  with  all  regrets  is  crowded. 

Oh,  hush;  oh,  hush!  Thy  tears  my  words  are  steeping. 
Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush!  So  full,  the  fount  of  weeping? 
Poor  eyes,  so  quickly  moved,  so  near  to  sleeping? 

Pardon  the  girl ;  such  strange  desires  beset  her. 

Poor  woman,  lay  aside  the  mournful  letter 

That  breaks  thy  heart;  the  one  who  wrote,  forget  her. 

The  one  who  now  thy  faded  features  guesses, 

With  filial  fingers  thy  grey  hair  caresses, 

With  morning  tears  thy  mournful  twilight  blesses. 

ALICE  MEYNELL. 


372       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY   OF 
ELEGY 

THE   SUMMER-HOUSE   ON  THE   MOUND 

How  well  my  eyes  remember  the  dim  path ! 
My  homeing  heart  no  happier  playground  hath. 
I  need  not  close  my  lids  but  it  appears 
Through  the  bewilderment  of  forty  years 
To  tempt  my  feet,  my  childish  feet,  between 
Its  leafy  walls,  beneath  its  arching  green ; 
Fairer  than  dream  of  sleep,  than  Hope  more  fair 
Leading  to  dreamless  sleep  her  sister  Care. 

There  grew  two  fellow  limes,  two  rising  trees, 
Shadowing  the  lawn,  the  summer  haunt  of  bees, 
Whose  stems,  engraved  with  many  a  russet  scar 
From  the  spear-hurlings  of  our  mimic  war, 
Pillar 'd  the  portico  to  that  wide  walk, 
A  mossy  terrace  of  the  native  chalk 
Fashion'd,  that  led  thro'  the  dark  shades  around 
Straight  to  the  wooden  temple  on  the  mound. 
There  live  the  memories  of  my  early  days, 
There  still  with  childish  heart  my  spirit  plays; 
Yea,  terror-stricken  by  the  fiend  despair 
When  she  hath  fled  me,  I  have  found  her  there; 
And  there  'tis  ever  noon,  and  glad  suns  bring 
Alternate  days  of  summer  and  of  spring, 
With  childish  thought,  and  childish  faces  bright, 
And  all  unknown  save  but  the  hour's  delight. 

High  on  the  mound  the  ivied  arbour  stood, 
A  dome  of  straw  upheld  on  rustic  wood : 
Hidden  in  fern  the  steps  of  the  ascent, 
Whereby  unto  the  southern  front  we  went. 
And  from  the  dark  plantation  climbing  free, 
Over  a  valley  look'd  out  on  the  sea. 

That  sea  is  ever  bright  and  blue,  the  sky 
Serene  and  blue,  and  ever  white  ships  lie 
High  on  the  horizon  steadfast  in  full  sail, 
Or  nearer  in  the  roads  pass  within  hail 
Of  naked  brigs  and  barques  that  windbound  ride 
At  their  taut  cables  heading  to  the  tide. 


LONGER  POEMS  373 

There  many  an  hour  I  have  sat  to  watch;  nay,  now 
The  brazen  disk  is  cold  against  my  brow, 
And  in  my  sight  a  circle  of  the  sea 
Enlarged  to  swiftness,  where  the  salt  waves  flee, 
And  ships  in  stately  motion  pass  so  near 
That  what  I  see  is  speaking  to  my  ear: 
I  hear  the  waves  dash  and  the  tackle  strain, 
The  canvas  flap,  the  rattle  of  the  chain 
That  runs  out  thro'  the  hawse,  the  clank  of  the  winch 
Winding  the  rusty  cable  inch  by  inch, 
Till  half  I  wonder  if  they  have  no  care, 
Those  sailors,  that  my  glass  is  brought  to  bear 
On  all  their  doings,  if  I  vex  them  not 
On  every  petty  task  of  their  rough  lot 
Prying  and  spying,  searching  every  craft 
From  painted  truck  to  gunnel,  fore  and  aft, — 
Thro'  idle  Sundays  as  I  have  watch' d  them  lean 
Long  hours  upon  the  rail,  or  neath  its  screen 
Prone  on  the  deck  to  lie  outstretch'd  at  length, 
Sunk  in  renewal  of  their  wearied  strength. 

But  what  a  feast  of  joy  to  me,  if  some 
Fast-sailing  frigate  to  the  Channel  come 
Back'd  here  her  topsail,  or  brought  gently  up 
Let  from  her  bow  the  splashing  anchor  drop, 
By  faint  contrary  wind  stay'd  in  her  cruise, 
The  Phaethon  or  dancing  Arethuse, 
Or  some  immense  three-decker  of  the  line, 
Romantic  as. the  tale  of  Troy  divine; 
Ere  yet  our  iron  age  had  doom'd  to  fall 
The  towering  freeboard  of  the  wooden  wall, 
And  for  the  engines  of  a  mightier  Mars 
Clipp'd  their  wide  wings,  and  dock'd  their  soaring  spars. 
The  gale  that  in  their  tackle  sang,  the  wave 
That  neath  their  gilded  galleries  dasht  so  brave 
Lost  then  their  merriment,  nor  look  to  play 
With  the  heavy-hearted  monsters  of  to-day. 

One  noon  in  March  upon  that  anchoring  ground 
Came  Napier's  fleet  unto  the  Baltic  bound: 
Cloudless  the  sky  and  calm  and  blue  the  sea, 
As  round  Saint  Margaret's  cliff  mysteriously, 
Those  murderous  queens  walking  in  Sabbath  sleep 


374  LONGER   POEMS 

Glided  in  line  upon  the  windless  deep: 

For  in  those  days  was  first  seen  low  and  black 

Beside  the  full-rigg'd  mast  the  strange  smoke-stack. 

And  neath  their  stern  revolv'd  the  twisted  fan. 

Many  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  might  scan, 

The  heavy  Royal  George,  the  Acre  bright, 

The  Hague  and  Ajax,  and  could  name  aright 

Others  that  I  remember  now  no  more ; 

But  chief,  her  blue  flag  flying  at  the  fore, 

With  fighting  guns  a  hundred  thirty  and  one, 

The  Admiral  ship  The  Duke  of  Wellington, 

Whereon  sail'd  George,  who  in  her  gig  had  flown 

The  silken  ensign  by  our  sisters  sewn. 

The  iron  Duke  himself, — whose  soldier  fame 

To  England's  proudest  ship  had  given  her  name, 

And  whose  white  hairs  in  this  my  earliest  scene 

Had  scarce  more  honour'd  than  accustom'd  been, — 

Was  two  years  since  to  his  last  haven  past: 

I  had  seen  his  castle-flag  to  fall  half-mast 

One  morn  as  I  sat  looking  on  the  sea, 

When  thus  all  England's  grief  came  first  to  me, 

Who  hold  my  childhood  favour'd  that  I  knew 

So  well  the  face  that  won  at  Waterloo. 

But  now  'tis  other  wars,  and  other  men; — 
The  year  that  Napier  sail'd,  my  years  were  ten — 
Yea,  and  new  homes  and  loves  my  heart  hath  found: 
A  priest  has  there  usurped  the  ivied  mound, 
The  bell  that  call'd  to  horse  calls  now  to  prayers, 
And  silent  nuns  tread  the  familiar  stairs. 
Within  the  peach-clad  walls  that  old  outlaw, 
The  Roman  wolf,  scratches  with  privy  paw. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


LCTCH'orOR.TH 

GN  GLAND 


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